Je déteste toujours autant marcher et pourtant, je recommence.
Comme un sentiment d’urgence pour n’entendre que les battements de mon cœur si secoué de peine qu’il ne me fallait plus entendre ni compréhension, ni compassion de quiconque.
Être seule, vraiment seule.
La terre est vivante, douée de mémoire et je ne voulais que cette mémoire.
Je ne voulais m’encombrer de rien.
Homme sceptique un peu goguenard :
« Fais-le mais je me souviens bien de ta dernière expédition ! » C’était il y a dix ans ou plus, je ne me souviens plus.
« C’est facile, y’en a eu qu’une ! »
Des pieds en plomb, les mollets noués, l’estomac creux, les aisselles malodorantes, les bras griffés mais j’avais vécu l’intense sentiment d’avancer malgré toute ma paresse et mon inexpérience.
« Où veux-tu aller ? »
« Au Mont-Beuvray »
« 50 km en voiture, 100 aller-retour, ça va je pourrais aisément te récupérer, tu prévois combien de jours ? » Il rit.
« Chais pas, 10 km par jour, pas plus, et comme j’y vais au pif, je ne saurais pas ce que j’ai parcouru, je m’arrêterai quand j’en aurais marre, je verrai bien ».
La veille du départ, Fils aîné au téléphone, moqueur :
« Maman, t’es toujours aussi dingue. Tu ne marches jamais, t’as même pas de bonnes godasses, tu f’rais mieux d’aller chez xxx, là, tu te ressourcerais. Un jour, il t’arrivera des bricoles avec tes idées huluberlues.../... »
« Ehh, je ne monte qu’au Mont-Beuvray, tu parles d’une expédition ! »
« Ouais mais t’as vu ton âge ? »
« Merci mon grand. Tu sais, il y a tellement de gens qui marchent pour de bon, des centaines de kilomètres sur toute la terre. Marcher pour le plaisir, marcher pour aller chercher de l’eau au puits, marcher en compétition, marcher pour aller à l’école, pour tous ceux là, je vais faire une balade, une promenade de santé, ça n’a rien d’une aventure ou d’un exploit, j’vais mettre un pas d’vant l’autre et recommencer, c’est tout. »
Et le 13 juin, j’ai pris le sentier forestier derrière la maison.
Le sac à dos, celui dont je me sers pour le goûter des petits, est rempli avec un kway, un morceau de bâche. J’ai coupé celle qui traînait par terre recouvrant la moto pour la protéger des chiures d’hirondelles, un pull, la gourde, un gant de toilette, un savon, ma brosse à dents, un sac de cacahuètes bien grasses et bien salées, des bananes sèches bien trop sucrées, cinq pommes et mon opinel. Il a une forme bizarre ce sac, comme un ballon accroché à mon dos. Il pèse 2,8 kg.
Et dans les poches de mon pantalon en toile, à droite mes clopes et mon briquet, à gauche le-pied-de-biche-à-tiques. J’me demande à quoi il me servira si j’ai une tique dans le dos ou sur la nuque !
J’ai rajouté ma carte d’identité, 40 euros, et concession pour Homme, mon téléphone. Il veut me géolocaliser. C’est qu’il m’aime Homme, à lui tout seul un océan dans lequel je nage avec tant de bonheur. Mais là, pas de nage papillon, des pas.
Et quand le téléphone n’aura plus de batteries ? On verra bien.
Je dis toujours -on verra bien - .
Dans le Morvan, les fées laissent leurs empreintes surnaturelles et comme je n’ai aucune carte, je ne sais pas les lire et n’ai pas envie d’apprendre, je vais leur faire confiance. Le soleil se lève à l’est et se couche à l’ouest, je dois aller à l’ouest, je suivrai sa course.
Et le 13 juin, j’ai serré les paupières pour repousser l’aube naissante.
Je n’avais plus du tout envie de partir, plus du tout envie de marcher.
Mais quand la brûlure salée a piqué derrière les paupières comme tous ces derniers jours, je n’ai pas reculé. J’ai lu un jour que les mauvais souvenirs et les chagrins ont de longues ombres et si on passe notre vie dedans on ne verrait plus jamais le soleil.
Ce 13 juin, le soleil était là alors, j’ai pris le sentier derrière la maison.
Ce premier jour, j’ai avancé une poignée d’heures. Combien pèse une poignée d’heures dans les jambes ? Sûrement plus qu’une poignée de cerises.
Le chemin forestier est large, silencieux. Je le connais bien pour l’avoir parcouru avec les enfants.
Après au bout, il y a une fourche et ce sera l’inconnu.
Il y a des grumes empilées et marquées de peinture rouge. Utile pour le traçage du bois, on y lit le nom du propriétaire ou de la société forestière.
Chênes, charmes, hêtres, quand ils sont là, fusillés et décapités, je ne sais pas les reconnaître. Ils vont partir sur des longs grumiers vers les scieries, dans toute l’Europe pour construire des charpentes. Une deuxième vie qu’ils n’avaient pas imaginé.
Quand les bûcherons débardent, le bruit est assourdissant. Je crois que même les sangliers se cachent ces jours là.
Nous sommes samedi, et j’entends le pépiement des oiseaux, le murmure de la rivière et les grésillement des insectes. J’essaie de me parler à voix haute et c’est si incongru que je me tais aussitôt et poursuis en silence la conversation avec moi même.
Je me dis que je n’ai peur de rien et que j’ai peur de tout et le temps semble courir quand on parle à son ami imaginaire.
Le chemin s’écarte enfin en V. La direction à droite va vers Nevers, à gauche vers Autun, c’est ainsi que je l’imagine. Assise par terre sur des mottes de terre dures et sèches chahutées par le passage des tracteurs, je croque une pomme, boit un peu d’eau. J’ai enlevé mes baskets et mes chaussettes et on dirait que mes pieds sont ramollis.
Puis, j’ai repris la marche dans le sous bois, on ne voit presque plus le ciel, je lève haut les jambes pour écraser les ronces, c’est crevant et j’ai l’impression d’être perdue. On se perd dans les bois, ça arrive, je le sais. Je ne sais même plus où est l’ouest.
Il y a comme une clairière dorée du soleil qui filtre, et une petite grotte si peu profonde que j’en vois le fond. C’est là que je vais m’arrêter pour la nuit. J’en ai plein les jambes et j’ai vraiment faim.
Je sors mon téléphone et il y a du réseau et il est 17 h. Que vais-je faire en attendant la nuit ?
Je n’ai pas de livre et je voulais la solitude.
Quand mon téléphone vibre, je sursaute.
C’est Homme :
« Tu as fait 12 km, bravo. Tu es à 850 m de la maison, tu rentres pour dormir ? »
La meilleure façon d'marcher, c'est de mettre un pied d'vant l'autre...
C'est une danse simple et harmonieuse, un pied devant l'autre, et suivre son ombre qui tourne avec le soleil...
Chaque pas laisse derrière l’inutile, l’encombrant, le superflu...sauf les petits liens précieux que l'amour a attaché au fil du temps et qui parfois, incongrus, exaspérants mais toujours bouleversants, viennent troubler une solitude attendue, un silence de fin du monde et le fil rêveur des pensées pour conjuguer au présent conditionnel un futur à inventer : "Je t'attends, tu reviendrais, on....
Ecrire, c’est éminemment solitaire et, quand je poste sur vf, je suis seule et c’est bien, comme si j’écrivais une nouvelle dans le silence. Puis surgissent des réponses comme celle de Kola et la tienne, je sursaute comme si, tout à coup, je réalisais que mettre en ligne était un danger aussi ténu que les petits insectes qui la nuit pourraient me piquer.
Parfois, comme là, c’est un souffle d’air, un soupir d’aise dans la rudesse du Morvan, ses roches de granit et ses arbres moussus.
Sylvain Tesson me transporte et il est souvent dans les replis de ma pensée.
La Patagonie, c’est lui, la Sibérie, c’est lui, il m’a souvent fait pousser des ailes.
Il écrit dans - Sur les chemins noirs - : « J'étais tombé du rebord de la nuit, m'étais écrasé sur la Terre.../... ». Des mots comme un gong qui résonne.
Voilà, j’ai tourné en rond…
Quand on s’ennuie, on tourne en rond et pourtant pas un seul instant je ne me suis ennuyée.
C’est tentant de parcourir 850 m pour me grouer dans ses bras rassurants.
Mais non, la petite grotte est là. 12 km et la découvrir si près de la maison, le mystère est parfait. Parfois on ne voit même pas ce que l’on a juste sous les yeux.
Les petits reviennent en Juillet et je pourrai leur montrer, inventer des histoires de sorcières et de lutins facétieux...si je la retrouve.
Je n’entends pas la route, pourtant, je ne dois pas en être loin. Demain, je passerai par la maison prendre le petit-déjeuner avec Homme, je suivrai la départementale jusqu’à Biches et sûr de sûr je serai dans la bonne direction.
« Tu te rends compte, tu vis un bivouac ! », Jiminy Cricket me parle, il est rassurant celui-là, perché sur mon épaule. Un bivouac, ça sonne bien, comme une vraie expédition, comme un trek.
Je déroule la bâche pour faire un essai.
Debout, je m’enroule. On dirait un linceul bleu et mes pieds dépassent. Des petites bêtes vont-elles s’infiltrer ? Je dois être toute entière dans la bâche sans laisser les bras sortir. Elle est trop courte pour cacher mes cheveux.
L’imagination est une traître et je pense aux polars que j’ai lu quand le meurtrier balance le cadavre dans les fourrés enroulé dans une bâche. On dirait moi.
Sauf que je suis bien vivante. Mais si je suis bien entortillée, pourrais-je me relever et fuir le danger ? Quel danger ? Un sanglier ? Un homme muni d’une hache ? Des araignées, des fourmis ?
Tout à l’heure j’ai vu un capricorne vraiment gros avec de très longues antennes. Est-ce qu’une armée de capricornes se réveille la nuit ?. Et la cétoine dorée, celle qui a une carapace vert métal, cousine du scarabée peut-elle trouver mon oreille la nuit, peut-être que ca aime le cérumen, peut-être que j’aurais dû prendre des boules quies.
Je suis une idiote, voilà. Tu t’étends, tu roules ton pull sous la tête, tu fermes les yeux, tu fermes tes oreilles et tu dors.
Je sais qu’il existe des cd de relaxation avec les bruits de la forêt. On entend le murmure du vent dans les arbres, des cris d’oiseaux. Mais là, tout de suite, maintenant dans le soir qui tombe, je me dis que c’est du pipeau parce que j’entends des craquements de branches, des cris brefs et stridents, des crissements de feuilles mortes comme si quelqu’un avançait. J’ai super peur.
Peut-être que cette sorte de grotte est la cache d’un animal, peut-être est-ce la cache d’un malandrin.
Quand je pense que j’ai maintes fois expliqué aux enfants que la nuit est propice aux rêves, que dormir sous la tente dans le champ derrière le muret n’avait rien de dangereux et là, je fais ma chochotte apeurée et si je ne rentre pas à la maison toute proche c’est parce que je n’ai pas de lampe.
J’allume mon téléphone, il est 23 h.
Non, je ne vais pas griller une cigarette, le tueur pourrait sentir la fumée. Le bois sec craque, ils sont peut-être deux. Je ne fais plus aucun bruit, je n’ose pas bouger, la bâche crisse trop.
Sur l’écran noir de ma nuit noire, moi je me fais du cinéma...
Je rentre mes bras dans la bâche, pose le téléphone sur mon ventre pour appeler à l’aide au cas où…
A la maison, la nuit, nous ne fermons jamais la porte à clé, tout simplement nous n’y pensons jamais. Mais là, si j’avais une clé, j’enfermerais mes pensées.
Le sommeil m’a englouti et j’ai dormi comme je ne l’avais pas fait depuis plusieurs semaines.
J’ai entrebâillé les yeux à l’aube. Ca ne se dit pas mais c’est pourtant ce mot qui va le mieux quand les cils font des persiennes. Le ciel était gris juste avant l’aurore.
J’ai refermé les paupières.
Réveillée en sursaut par une toux sèche, j’ai failli me fracasser le crâne sur le bord rocheux de ma grotte.
Une ombre immense cachait la lumière. J’aurais pu dire « ôte-toi de mon soleil » si je n’avais pas été aussi effrayée.
« Qu’est-ce que tu fais ici ? »
J’ai reconnu la voix. Mince, c’est Jean-François.
« Je campe, j’allais au Mont-Beuvray »
« Mais t’es à côté de chez toi et tu dors dans la grotte d’affût des chasseurs »
« Je sais, j’avais envie »
Puis Rita est arrivée en galopant. C’est une chienne d’eau romagnol. Une petite chienne truffier.
Sa robe en boucles serrées ocre et blanche est mouillée de rosée.
Je me débarrasse de la bâche, Jean-François rigole. Hummm, je sens que ça va faire le tour du village c’histoire !
Il me propose un café et sort la thermos.
J’ai super besoin de faire pipi, faudra attendre.
Il se balade toujours dans les bois avec Rita. Une artiste de la truffe. La sienne fraîche et humide me chatouille le cou.
Même si la truffe noire se trouve chez nous dès septembre, il connaît des coins de truffes blanches d’été. On l’appelle truffe de la St Jean et il paraît que ça revient à la mode.
La truffe noire sent l’humus et la blanche le fromage à l’ail. Je n’aime ni l’une ni l’autre.
Quand Jean-François en apporte à la maison, je ne refuse pas, faudrait être idiote. Je la mets dans un bocal, je recouvre de grain de riz, je conserve au frigo.
Râpé dans une omelette, c’est pas mal, faut dire.
Je ne mets pas longtemps à retrouver la maison.
J’en ai déjà plein les bottes, enfin les baskets.
Homme a préparé le p’tit déj sous le parasol jaune. La brioche est encore tiède.
Il m’a fait un dessin avec ma route à suivre. Pas un truc de google machin, pas une carte ign imprimée pleine de lignes et de couleur. Un simple dessin, à la main, avec des noms de hameaux que je connais bien.
Plus moyen de reculer.
Mais quelle idée absurde de marcher.
Mais quelle idée ridicule de me fixer des objectifs que je n’aime pas.
Et pourtant je suis tellement fière d’avoir résister aux assassins, aux sangliers et aux insectes rampants.
Allez, il est 10 h, ça fait tard pour repartir. Ce soir je serai à Sainte-Péreuse.
Hou hou hou! Crac, boum, hue...
Les lois de la physique. On croit progresser mais ce n'est qu'une révolution (mouvement orbital périodique d'un corps céleste). Sans compter le magnétisme de sweet Homme, ses pouvoirs magiques.
(Nan mais, t'as quel âge Pondy, en vrai?)
Hou hou hou! Crac, boum, hue...
Les lois de la physique. On croit progresser mais ce n'est qu'une révolution (mouvement orbital périodique d'un corps céleste). Sans compter le magnétisme de sweet Homme, ses pouvoirs magiques.
(Nan mais, t'as quel âge Pondy, en vrai?)
Bonsoir Jean-Luc,
L’âge est un chiffre.
Je n’aime pas les chiffres, le millilitre, l’hectogramme, le mètre-cube, les kilomètres et les centimètres, le temps, les secondes, les poids, ceux des années et les mesures. Les portions et les demi- portions.
Et d’âge en âge, j’ai celui-ci d’aujourd’hui, j’ai dépassé l’âge ingrat, je suis dans la force de l’âge et en même temps dans l’âge mur, je fais mon âge sans savoir si j’ai vraiment, un jour atteint l’âge de raison. Je retrouve souvent mon premier âge puisque chaque âge a ses plaisirs. Et quand j’aurais passé l’âge, j’aurais atteint l’âge d’or, hors d’âge.
Et pour sweet home et sweet homme, les décennies glissent sur notre toit et sur nos mains laissant simplement les tavelures du temps, marques géographiques qui racontent notre monde.
Magique !😛
Bonsoir Dom, splendide ton aventure, cela me rappelle ton arrêt sur ton banc entre Grenoble et Lyon il y a maintenant peut-être une dizaine d'années, mais tu as effacé ce récit auquel j'ai beaucoup et souvent pensé. Maintenant je prends donc mes précautions et vais copier ton texte.
Wahou j'adore
Luc
Ah t'es gentil Luc.
Je sais, tu m'as parlé plusieurs fois de ce texte.
Je ne l'ai plus non plus comme tout ce que j'ai écrit et effacé de vf.
Tu remarqueras mon intrépidité réitérée, ce doit être du masochisme.
A côté de toi et de beaucoup dont je lis les exploits, quand vous parlez de dénivelés, d'équipements et tous ces trucs, je me sens humble et mes petits kilomètres sont archi-dérisoires.
On pourrait disserter longtemps sur le voyage et l'aventure, mais comme tu l'as dit le voyage ce n'est pas des chiffres qu'ils soient en années du corps, en dénivelé, en altitude, en kilomètres parcourus en 4x4, à vélo ou à pied et je ne parle pas d'avion, ou en verticalité dans une paroi où un kilomètre est une distance énorme (cf la face ouest des Drus) mais le voyage et l'aventure c'est dans la tête et dans les émotions, que tu décris si bien.
Les émotions c'est ce que l'on oublie trop dans nos expériences, et une petite pointe d'incertitude ou d'inconfort voire de peur ou d'angoisse, de faim ou de soif c'est là que commence l'aventure, au pas de sa porte ou un peu plus loin. Tes récits vibrent d'aventure.
Avec l'habitude il faut malheureusement pousser les limites pour ressentir ce que tu décris si bien.
Ma dernière petite balade ces jours derniers avec des gros accros de l'adrénaline et de la défonce, on a rigolé mais on n'a pas vraiment senti l'aventure, même si ce fut un bel effort physique et une très belle entente entre 4 personnes éprises de pistes et de gros efforts et de plein d'autres choses. On a ressenti, mais sans appréhension, la capacité d'adaptation à la nature, la capacité à trouver presque instinctivement le coin où se poser pour la nuit, un peu à la manière des "sauvages" qui vivent dans leur forêt, ou qui vivaient.
Les deux "nanas" et le gars, avec qui j'étais, étaient trop habitués à la grosse défonce pour que nous nous sentions dans l'aventure, au plus dans une agréable balade, dont je ne pourrais sortir un texte de l'intensité de ton bivouac à 12 km de chez toi avec l'Homme qui veille de loin.
Moi aussi je connais la Femme qui veille. Je connais si bien que parfois l'envie d'aller bivouaquer, à la recherche d'aventure, seul dans la forêt d'à côté me prend, mais la Femme qui veille me dit "tu pars te balader mais tu rentres dormir ici, c'est quoi cette affaire de dormir à 5 km de chez soi."
Quand je raconte ça à mes copines et copains un peu beaucoup azimutés, ça les fait éclater de rire. Le voyage et l'aventure ça ne se décline qu'à l'aune de sa propre psychologie, mais ta conception correspond à la mienne.
Luc
On peut aller au bout du monde, on peut découvrir des merveilles que d’autres ont déjà vu, on peut rencontrer des gens incroyables, on peut pleurer de fatigue, pleurer de rire, grincher et râler, se sentir paumé de ne rien comprendre mais si je dois raconter comme un diaporama aux photos splendides, là, je suis méga nulle, je ne sais pas faire.
Je ne sais raconter qu’avec mes tripes, alors, souvent, toutes les indications qui aideraient d’autres voyageurs sont absentes.
C’est ainsi que je lis parfois des commentaires qui m’attristent, qui disent que je suis Narcisse à l’égo boursouflé. Ce doit être vrai.
Et puis, je me console en me disant que pour reconnaître une lacune chez l’autre il faut au moins la posséder en partie.
Et je continue d’écrire et c’est trop long à lire mais je n’arrive pas à être brève et factuelle, c’est ainsi ! Il y a mille voyages...
Je garde dans ma bouche le parfum de la brioche et pars pour ce deuxième jour.
Mes jambes ont repris leur fonction première, ce qu’elles font depuis l’âge de 13 mois où, en barboteuse à smocks, j’ai lâché le tablier de ma mère.
C’est elle qui m’a lâché aujourd’hui et je marche, je marche pour laisser en chemin la lourdeur de la peine, pour ne garder que le souvenir de sa main à la peau si fine qui cale une mèche rebelle derrière mon oreille quand accroupie devant elle je lui disais que je l’aimais.
Ventre-saint-gris, c’est fou comme on prend conscience des choses et des moments importants lorsqu’ils ont disparu.
Je longe un champ de tournesol. Malins ces tournesols, ils connaissent d’instinct comment chauffer leur cœur en tournant leur bouille jaune au soleil. La DDE n’a pas fauché le bord de la route et les herbes folles sont, euhhhh, folles . La route est gravillonnée et, à moto, c’est ma trouille. A pied, ça dérape un peu mais le bruit du gravier qui roule sous mon pied est un son agréable.
Mon sac à dos ballon danse la gigue sur mon dos, il faut que je resserre les lanières.
Ma deuxième voix est bavarde ce matin. Est-ce que les gens qui marchent parlent avec eux-mêmes ? J’imagine que oui.
A la maison quand je suis sur la chaise longue laissant fondre les carrés de chocolat sur ma langue en lisant un bouquin, je lui claque le beignet facilement.
« Faudrait que tu prépares les lits, que tu aspires les toiles d’araignées, que tu fasses les menus, les courses, la maison va se remplir et tu fous rien »
« Ehh, fiche-moi la paix, y’a le temps » et elle se tait.
Au rythme de mes pas, nous devisons elle et moi. P’être que je suis schizophrène.
On joue dit-elle, tu dois me dire cinq choses que tu n’aimes pas, comme ça, sans réfléchir
Facile.
« Je n’aime pas les les étiquettes qui grattent, les menteurs, les ongles longs, le haggis, les piscines. »
« Et maintenant cinq choses que tu aimes. »
« Y’en a trop »
« Vas-y, sans réfléchir »
« Les marionnettes à fil, jouer aux échecs, le mime, écrire, lire, les claquettes »
« T’as triché, y’en a six »
« Dis-moi deux livres »
« Confiteor de Jaume Cabré si époustouflant et La perle de Steinbeck et tu ne me demandes pas celui qui m’a le plus dérangé ? C’est l’oiseau bariolé de Jerzy Kosinski ».
J’ai marché d’un bon pas, je dois avoir parcouru une belle distance.
Aucune voiture, la campagne est silence. J’ai contourné un blaireau bien mort. C’est fréquent sur nos chemins. Ici on a coutume de dire que le pays est peuplé de blaireaux à quatre pattes et de blaireaux a deux pattes.
Je traverse un hameau, quelques maisons de nourrice, grises aux toits d’ardoise. Un hameau déserté aux volets clos. Devant la dernière maison, une vieille femme arrose des géraniums rouge, seule tache de couleur dans ce gris. Elle est courbée comme tant de vieillards, comme s’ils s’exerçaient à rejoindre la terre qui les a vu naître.
Elle se redresse, s’aidant de sa main qui soutient la hanche :
« ‘jour, qu’est-ce que vous bagottez par ici ?»
Sa voix est forte et éraillée comme les voix qui ne parlent pas souvent, le ton est rogue.
.../...
« J’suis pas si gourdiflot , j’vois bien que t’es pas un un pangniât, t’as la bouëlle vide ? »
Faut être né morvandiau pour rouler ainsi des pierres sur la langue.
Si je connais quelques mots et si je peux dire deux phrases, lorsque cette vieille femme me parle, je ne comprends goutte.
Mais elle a posé son arrosoir, et me fait signe de la suivre dans sa maison.
Une maisonnette de deux pièces comme beaucoup de maisons de nourrice.
Un sol de tomettes rouge, la cheminée vaste, une table et quatre chaises. Une sobriété toute propre.
Je reste sur le seuil, lui explique qu’il y a un risque de virus et là, sacrebleu, elle empile des phrases à toute vitesse, sans reprendre son souffle comme si elle rattrapait le temps perdu à se taire.
Je souris, elle déchire une page du journal du Centre, coupe un morceau de griaude, cette brioche aux lardons typique de notre région.
Elle me tend le paquet :
« Tiens, v’là ta beurioche »
Et j’ai repris mon chemin songeant que ma campagne était bien austère, qu’elle ne serait sans doute jamais envahie de citadins. Leurs habitants gardent fièrement leur patois qui tend plus à l’euphonie qu’à la rudesse. Mes jeunes collègues parlaient aussi le morvandiau, et j’en étais étonnée et parfois cela donnait lieu à de franches rigolades.
En milieu d’après-midi, mes orteils deviennent douloureux. Le bout des orteils, à chaque pas, heurtent le fond de mes baskets.
Il paraît qu’être bien chaussé est essentiel pour bien marcher.
Je porte les baskets de ma fille quand elle avait quinze ans. Elle en a le triple et je les ai toujours. Inusables. C’était le cadeau de ses quinze ans. Un gros, très gros cadeau de cette époque lointaine où manger et payer les factures était un souci constant. Les adolescentes portaient ce type de baskets et ma fille en rêvait tellement.
Je les ai gardé et quand son pied a grandi, le mien était parfait et elles allaient comme...un gant.
Pour l’heure, ça me brûle dans mes godasses.
J’ai quitté la route pour suivre un sentier herbeux qui longe les haies de noisetiers.
Tous les trois ans à peu près, dans nos villages, les amateurs et amoureux du bocage vont plesser les haies. Le plessage permet d’incliner les branches et de les lier entre elles.
C’est une technique ancienne qui perdure ici dans le Morvan et qui permet d’enclore naturellement les champs et les pâturages. C’est beau au regard.
Décidément, c’est trop douloureux. Il me faudrait marcher sur les talons.
Assise dans l’herbe fraîche, à l’ombre d’un saule blanc, je libère mes pieds.
Pas de cloques, rien du tout, c’est rouge, bien rouge.
Et j’éprouve un tel soulagement que je m’allonge dans l’herbe, la tête appuyée sur le sac, les yeux vers le ciel et, c’est étrange, je n’en sais pas la raison, ma mémoire récite - le dormeur du val.-
-Un petit val qui mousse de rayons,
accrochant follement aux herbes des haillons d’argent-
Bonjour
J’espère que tu n’as pas fait comme le petit dormeur du val, et que tu as pu te relever pour continuer à nous raconter, au fil des jours, ton parcours sur les chemins de la France profonde.
Je me régale chaque matin à te lire !
" Nous ne saurons jamais tout le bien qu'un simple sourire peut être capable de faire."
Mère Teresa
Le Morvan c’est 15 habitants au km², éparpillés dans de petits hameaux, quelques bourgades et petites villes, loin des grands axes routiers, des services de santé, des lignes d’autobus.
Des milliers d’habitants et tant de vieilles gens isolés qui se cramponnent à leur lopin de terre avec pugnacité et la volonté de passer de vie à trépas chez eux.
J’ai vu des vieilles femmes pousser la brouette de bûches. Poêle ou cheminée pour réchauffer durant l’hiver rigoureux, j’ai vu des vieilles gens tirer l’eau du puits. Ici, dans le Morvan encore aujourd’hui. Les enfants sont à Paris, loin et viennent si peu ou simplement pour quelques jours de vacances.
Mais déracine t-on un arbre ? Les branches noueuses et décharnées sont couvertes de feuilles luisantes et vertes. Le vieil arbre est bien vivant.
Bonsoir Dom tu en parles bien de ton Morvan, et je vois avec plaisir que ton aventure est appréciée. Oui, on est loin de l'adresse de l'hôtel à ne pas manquer ou du nom de loueur de 4X4, on est tout simplement dans le récit de voyage comme j'aimerais en lire plus.
Au fait c'est quoi des maisons de nourrice?
A demain donc pour la suite
Luc
C'est bien agréable d'écrire pour quelques uns qui suivent cette aventure qui n'en est pas une.
Pour répondre à ta question sur les maisons de nourrice :
C'est un sujet qui me passionne et je vais faire le plus bref possible sinon je serais intarissable.
Les femmes morvandelles ont toujours été considérées comme de très bonnes allaitantes.
Dans les documents-patrimoine ont lit ceci : « Déjà les romains rapportaient que les gauloises de Bibracte trempaient leurs seins dans une fontaine du Mont Beuvray pour obtenir en quantité le lait qui nourrirait leurs enfants. ».
Ainsi, la bourgeoisie parisienne du second empire faisait appel à leurs services.
Ces femmes quittaient leurs familles et leur propre nourrisson (qui lui était nourri à la farine d’orge dilué à la petite cuillère) et se rendaient à la capitale.
Plus de la moitié des nourrices de Paris était des morvandelles. Elles gagnaient bien leur vie. C’était des -nourrices sur lieu-.
Ainsi, avec cet argent, se sont construit des maisonnettes si typiques du paysage du Morvan. Toit d’ardoise et façade grise, deux pièces et parfois un appentis. On dit aussi – maison de lait -
Leur réputation était si grande que, lorsque la mode de la nourrice s’est éteinte avec l’arrivée des biberons, l’assistance publique de Paris a envoyé des milliers d’orphelins dans le Morvan.
On dit et je n’ai plus la source, que le nivernais et le Morvan sont pour 30 % peuplés d’une population issue d’orphelins et que c’est une terre d’accueil.
De minuscules sauterelles me réveillent. Elles font ce que font toutes les sauterelles, elles sautent et me chatouillent.
Aïe, j’ai dormi et profondément, sans rêve.
Mes orteils ont repris leur teinte d’origine.
Il fait frais, je ne veux pas savoir l’heure. Je n’allume pas mon téléphone pour garder la batterie en forme. Je ne le ferai qu’à destination pour que Homme me géolocalise.
Je sais à peu près où je suis et en suivant les haies, ici on dit - les traces-, je rejoins la route qui tortillonne jusqu’à Saint-Péreuse et quitte la vallée du Veynon.
Faut-il avoir un but sur la route comme dans la vie ?
Je me dis que si nous n’aspirons à rien, nous sommes sûrs d’atteindre notre but, c’est peut-être pour ça que je planifie si mal, que je suis si peu organisée, que je suis si paresseuse.
En ce deuxième jour de balade, je n’ai guère avancé et si j’ai imaginé une boucle, pour l’heure je la brode au point de chaînette.
Des pas, des pas, et ça monte, Saint-Péreuse est perché, c’est un bien grand mot, au-dessus de la vallée. Je dépasse les ruines du château féodal, je ne vais pas m’arrêter là, c’est plein d’orties et trop exposé.
Et quand j’arrive sur le plateau, ouf, voilà le château. Tout moche, c’est mon avis et sûrement pas celui des propriétaires. C’est un château décrépi qui ressemble plus à une maison forte avec sa tour et son énorme pigeonnier. Entouré de chênes touffus, de murets écroulés, il est parfait pour ma halte nocturne.
Six bananes sèches, la griaude de la petite grand-mère, un peu desséchée, une pomme, de l’eau, un repas équilibré pour une marcheuse, un p’tit pipi, enfiler le pull, m’enrouler dans la bâche, enlever les trois pommes et la gourde pour que mon oreiller sac à dos soit plus...moelleux et me voilà prête pour la nuit.
Le crépuscule est aussi bien installé que moi.
Merde, merde, merde, un chien aboie furieusement.
« Scotch, au pied ! »
Le chien est pile devant moi, babines retroussées.
J’ai le coeur serré comme un poing, le sang cogne dans mes oreilles. Couarde je suis, couarde je resterai.
« Qu’est-ce que vous foutez là, c’est une propriété privée »
« Je fais halte pour la nuit, je ne pensais pas déranger »
L’homme costaud, casquette sur la tête, ne l’entend pas de cette oreille.
« Vous dégagez où j’appelle les flics »
« D’accord, d’accord, mais il va faire vraiment nuit »
« Vous v’nez d’où, z’êtes qui »
« Je viens de S.. et je m’appelle Dom xxx »
« Z’êtes la femme du maire de S… ? »
« Oui, depuis l’élection »
« Dedieu, si j’m’attendais à ça »
Le ton change. Je passe du statut de voyouse-clocharde au statut dame-respectable.
L’homme se fait aimable.
« Je ne peux pas vous laisser là, chuis en charge de la propriété, Chuis responsable, je vous ramène chez vous »
La nuit est tombée, que puis-je faire.
La mort dans l’âme, j’accepte et c’est dans son vieux 4X4, le berger allemand à l’arrière, que j’arrive à la maison !!!
Cette balade est un peu comme un jour sans fin. Au moment de fermer les yeux pour un repos bien mérité, on se retrouve à la case départ. Hâte de savoir ce que nous réserve la suite de ce récit...
Quel talent de conteuse...en te lisant je me vois à la veillée écoutant tes histoires, un bon verre de vin à la main riant de tes aventures....
Merci pour les précisions sur les maisons de nourrice je m'apprêtais à poser la même question que Luc...Donc le Morvan c'était les nourrices et la Bretagne les bonnes les auvergnats le charbon c'est intéressant de voir comment était organisée les migrations régionales....
J'ai une idée: demain tu quittes la maison en marche arrière!
Plus sérieusement, j'ai parlé de ton cas à un pote Sud-Africain spécialiste des allers-retours sous contrôle. Elon Musk, le type qui envoie sa voiture dans l'espace pour le fun, propose de te prendre à domicile avec sa navette spatiale et de te déposer sur ton monticule. Demain au point du jour, ça irait? Il demande accessoirement si l'honorable édile de ton village ne disposerait pas d'espaces communaux susceptibles d'être transformés en pas de tir.
@ tous, merci vraiment de tous vos amusants commentaires.
@Voyajou : L’édile me dit : « y’a ben le champ d’foire mais il est réservé pour la brocante qu’il n’y aura pas cette année »
Plus sérieusement, tu diras à ton copain sud-africain que je préfère m’abstenir, son véhicule serait trop rapide et trop bruyant pour que je puisse écouter les battements de mon coeur.
Elon Musk, aux initiales si évocatrices, est également le créateur des voitures Tesla, dont le silence et le confort te permettront d’écouter ton coeur (qu’il faut, on ne le dira jamais assez, toujours écouter).
La porte refermée derrière le gardien du château, Homme m’enlace et rit, rit si fort que mon menton tressaute sur sa poitrine.
Et moi qui allait fondre en larmes comme si j’arrivais directement de Commercy, joins mon rire au sien.
« T’es sure que tu ne t’appelles pas Miss Boomerang, heureusement que je n’avais pas convié ma maîtresse »
« J’en ai marre marre et marre, tu t’rends compte c’est juste à côté et je n’y arrive pas »
« Mais si, demain je te dépose à Saint-Péreuse, devant l’entrée du château, tu passes dans la vallée, tu files plein est par Donmartin, tu traverses Chaligny, Champcheur, les Grains, La Croix de Pré, Fâchin et juste avant les Buteaux encore plein est, tu traverses l’Yonne, tu passes par Echenault et tu y es.Allez, souris, c’est simple ! »
J’ai dormi sous la couette tiède et, au matin, pas question de partir.
J’ai les jambes raides, le dos raide, les genoux raides et heureusement que je ne suis pas un homme avec toute cette raideur dans tout le corps !
Je me cramponne à la rampe de l’escalier, le café embaume et j’avance comme un dindon dans la cuisine.
Homme se marre encore, mais c’est qu’il se fiche de moi celui-là !
« T’as-vu, il pleut » dit-il d’une mine faussement affligée « heureusement tu as ton Kway »
« J’peux pas marcher, j’ai mal partout, tant pis j’irai une autre année.
« Mais non, tu ne vas pas flancher comme ça, je te connais plus forte quand même, tu vas voir, ça ira, tu en as pour un peu plus 6 heures de marche »
« Pfuuuuu, impossible et sous la pluie en plus et où j’vais dormir s’il pleut ? »
« Tu gardes ton idée, sous un arbre moussu de Bibracte comme tu le voulais »
Alors toute cramboulis, je monte dans la voiture et en 15 minutes oui, quinze minutes, je suis à l’entrée du château. C’est dingue comme le temps est relatif.
Sous la pluie.
Un certain Joseph Lagrange, de Saint Péreuse, au début du siècle a écrit un recueil de poèmes ‘Fleur au vent du Morvan ‘, l’avait pas dû marcher dans l’herbe trempée avec les fleurs toutes aplaties et en plus j’ai de l’eau qui coule dans le cou, j’avais pas vu que la capuche était déchirée.
Je me sens morose et la mauvaise humeur accélère mes pas, c’est toujours ça.
Mes pieds font ploc-ploc dans les baskets et ils vont ramollir et être tout blancs, j’en suis sure.
Et j’avance et le ciel s’éclaircit et mes pensées le suivent. Je pense aux enfants, aux petits-enfants qui, en grandissant me poussent sur l’autre pente, qu’il est doux pour l’heure de vieillir entourée de ces corbeilles de bonheur. J’invente les jeux de l’été qui arrive, nos olympiades annuelles, notre fête des anniversaires.
Juste avant d’arriver à Bibracte, je m’arrête sur une souche. A côté est installée une boîte à livres. Des romans en néerlandais, et un roman policier dont je feuillette les pages. Une phrase me saute aux yeux et va se coller dans un coin de mon esprit.
Ayé je suis dans la forêt, le site est silencieux, aucun touriste, en bas le musée est fermé ainsi que le restaurant gaulois. Je connais Bibracte par coeur. Le sentier fleure l’humus et grimpe jusqu’à l’esplanade herbeuse. C’est là que nous faisons une fois par an un pique-nique géant avec nos amis à l’époque où les druides autrefois fêtaient le solstice d’été.
La vue porte loin et je me dis que les Eduens regardaient comme moi ce paysage jusqu’au Mont-Blanc.
Je passe derrière la chapelle en granit noirci et retrouve les arbres, encore une centaine de mètres, je laisse la fontaine de jouvence et voilà mes arbres, les miens.
Des arbres tordus par le plessage d’antan, couverts de mousse verte, qui tendent leurs troncs bien droits vers la lumière. C’est comme une allégorie de la vie, la mienne. Toute tordue et tourmentée puis, enfin, lumineuse.
Je sais où me poser.
Je glisse la main dans le creux du tronc et quand mes doigts touchent le fond un peu fibreux, ma main pivote et je sens dans la niche et les petits papiers.
Il paraît que lorsque -les mots tus hurlent au fond de nous-, si on écrit sur un papier ils se taisent.
Mes enfants ont mis des petits papiers, Homme aussi, une fois et une de mes petites filles et les miens sont là déposés dans la cavité ombreuse.
« Quand je serai une dame, une vraie dame et que tu seras morte, je pourrai sortir les petits papiers ? » m’a t-elle demandé l’année dernière.
J’ai étendu la bâche, posé mon sac, enlevé mes chaussures.
J’ai mis mon petit papier.
Je sais que la nuit sera belle.
Et la phrase de tout à l’heure s’est allumée :
« J’ai laissé mon cœur vaquer à ses occupations secrètes ».
Bonjour Dom , encore wahou trop bien ton aventure, trop belle ta forêt. J'attends le coeur palpitant la suite, mais j'espère qu'avec la nuit qui inexorablement va descendre, accompagnée du sortilège de son cortège d'ombres menaçantes, le Roi des aulnes n'en profitera pas pour t'effleurer, te promettre des trésors et se saisir (ergreifen) de toi puis t'entraîner dans sa ronde mortelle:
Wer reitet so spät durch Nacht und Wind
Es ist der Vater mit seinem Kind
.....
....
Erreicht den Hof mit Mühe und Not
In seinen Armen das Kind war tot
Bonjour Dom,
Je découvre par hasard votre magnifique récit si souriant et qui résonne en moi profondément. Quel bonheur de vous lire. Il est tellement vrai que l'aventure est au bout du chemin.
Il m'évoque ce livre de Jacques Lacarrière, "Chemin faisant", qui m'a tant fait rêver pendant des dizaines d'années avant que je puisse enfin concrétiser mon envie.
Rien ne me paraît plus nécessaire aujourd'hui que de découvrir ou redécouvrir nos paysages et nos villages en prenant le temps de le faire. Savoir retrouver les saisons, les aubes et les crépuscules, l'amitié des animaux et même des insectes, le regard d'un inconnu qui vous reconnaît sur le seuil de son rêve. La marche seule permet cela. Cheminer, musarder, s'arrêter où l'on veut, écouter, attendre, observer. Alors, chaque jour est différent du précédent, comme l'est chaque visage, chaque chemin. Jacques Lacarrière
Nous sommes en direct de Bibracte en pays Beuvray.
Et pour clore notre chronique sportive avant la saison estivale, nous rencontrons une randonneuse de l’extrême.
« Bonjour Pondy, vous avez réalisé un exploit qui laisse pantois, rallier votre village pour rejoindre Bibracte à plus de 34 km de chez vous, que pouvez-vous nous dire de cette aventure ? »
« Euhhhhh, c’était bien »
« Avez-vous rencontrer des difficultés »
« Euhhhh, pas beaucoup »
« Est-il vrai que la marche permet de se recentrer sur soi-même ? »
« Euhhh, oui, on tourne beaucoup autour de son rambillot, et personne ne vient vous contredire, c’est agréable »
« Quel conseil donneriez-vous pour qui veut atteindre un objectif aussi ambitieux que le vôtre ? »
« Etre attentif aux lumières de ses pieds, les ampoules éclairent votre chemin mais ne sont guère fiables et ce n’est pas parce que vous avez des ampoules que vous pouvez marcher la nuit. »
« Préparez-vous un autre trek d’envergure comme celui-ci ? »
« Je pense que je vais me remettre et me reposer puis en septembre, je vais tenter d’atteindre Vezelay, 45km et un gros dénivelé de 800m, en autonomie totale et sans doute pieds nus, projet que j’envisage sérieusement. »
« Incroyable, vraiment incroyable, après la nuit dans les racines d’un arbre, comment vous sentez-vous ? »
« La nuit était parfaite, Goethe n’est pas venu ternir mes rêves, la rosée a mouillé mes vêtements et j’attends Homme pour rentrer à moto »
« Une autre aventure alors , nous allons vous laisser vous préparer.
Merci auditeurs de Radio-Morvan d’avoir été fidèles à notre chronique, rendez-vous à la rentrée, passez un bel été »
Bonjour Pondy sniff c’est donc fini, merci radio-Morvan, je mets le lien vers ma radio résonance.fm radio de la Bresse dans les Vosges, une chronique mensuelle un pays vu par un cyclotouriste. La dernière chronique tour de Corse et Sardaigne.
https://www.resonance-fm.com/radio-vosges/podcast.html
Si cela t'intéresse en me donnant par MP une adresse mail, je t’envoie les trois derniers enregistrements que j’ai faits de deux super « furieuses » au cours de mon dernier petit voyage à travers Cévennes et Causses, arpenteuse de déserts en solo et coureuse incroyable.
Luc
Une grande aventure joliment racontée à travers un carnet atypique, poétique et intimiste. Merci pour cette découverte tout en douceur de ce qui est du côté de chez toi.
Merci pour ce récit de ces petites virées à côté de chez toi dans le Morvan! Voilà qui fait du bien, c'est rafraîchissant et ça fait toujours plaisir de constater que certains adultes savent conserver une âme d'enfant au fond d'eux. J'aime ce genre de petites promenades aussi! 🙂
Merci pour le partage.
C'est super agréable de te lire, c'est très bien écrit, poétique, limpide, drôle et profond à la fois... Tout ce que j'aime dans les carnets !
cela faisait des mois, (que dis-je ? des années) que je ne t'avais pas lue. Mais c'est toujours avec le même plaisir.
Ton style inimitable et ton humour (comment ne pas sourire à 1 des nombreuses expressions telles que
...moi qui allait fondre en larmes comme si j’arrivais directement de Commercy...
m'ont entraîné, comme autrefois, dans tes pérégrinations.
Comme j'ai découvert ton post avec retard, j'ai lu ton histoire (et les messages/réactions qui l'ont entrecoupée) d'une traite. Tu le croiras ou pas, je t'ai accompagnée dans ton expédition épique, tremblant avec toi pour les terribles dangers, que tu as affrontés avec un courage impressionnant.
Mon "intégrisme" de l'orthographe et de la grammaire françaises ont failli me faire rebrousser chemin à la vue de fautes, que ton éditeur a honteusement laissé passer. Mais te connaissant, j'ai considéré qu'elles n'étaient que des fautes de frappe et ai poursuivi ma lecture.
Ton texte m'a également permis d'apprendre du vocabulaire. Je ne connaissais pas le mot "rogue" et ai dû consulter un dictionnaire. Si j'en crois ce que j'ai appris, au vu de son attitude postérieure, peut-on finalement considérer que seul le ton de cette femme l'était (rogue) ?
Bref, merci et bravo pour ce texte enchanteur. Assurément, je vais revenir plus souvent sur VF.
Thierry
On dit souvent "Fermez la porte, il fait froid dehors !" Mais une fois la porte fermée, il fait toujours aussi froid dehors.
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This trip had been on my mind for about fifteen years.
But the discomfort of overnight stays, the difficulty of communication, and the prices of the few car rentals kept making me postpone the project.
And then, everything fell into place—I told myself, now’s the time!
Preparations took longer than usual; the destination is still far from mainstream.
A bit of Kazakhstan?
Not in the end.
The south or not?
Yes, in the end.
Pre-book or play it by ear?
Only two stops were a leap into the unknown.
To help me find the ideal route, I made great use of this forum (thanks to everyone for patiently answering my questions!), pored over travel journals and blogs (Christian, Jeff), zoomed in on Google Maps and Yandex, and bought the guide published by OunTravela on this destination (the guide has been updated since).
---/---
You’ve got your passport, international driver’s license, bank cards, and euros?
Off we go to Lyon—just one night left before our early morning flight.
Tomorrow night, we’ll be sleeping in Bishkek!
(‘Beefsteak’ for my partner’s mischievous nephews...)
This travel journal is therefore intended solely for my photos, to present a consistent style.
All the shots were taken with a simple Samsung Galaxy smartphone and with whatever was at hand.
All stays combined, I’ve spent the equivalent of a year at most in Thailand, and I’m no great expert.
However, after many trips, lots of reading on VoyageForum and other sites, and conversations with many locals as well as expats, my view of the country is becoming clearer, though it’s constantly evolving. You never stop discovering and learning.
I guess I wanted to deliver a puzzle, mainly for those who want to get an idea of the country here and for those who feel nostalgic about it.
I don’t know if this minimalist sharing will interest anyone, but it’ll do me good to put it together. After so many months without traveling and then these other long months with VF closed, there’s plenty of material available.
There’ll be a mix of places, periods, and subjects, but it might well be intentional.
I suspect many Thais have dogs because they make excellent guardians for the home. Nothing better to deter burglars or to signal the presence of a snake. You’ll often see Thais tapping the top of their dog’s head, but don’t be fooled: it’s a sign of affection from them. Judging by the dogs’ reactions, they’re used to it.
Thailand is one of the countries on the planet where rabies is still present, so keep that in mind. It’s not just bites that can be dangerous, so don’t let just any dog lick you. Especially on a wound, of course.
Even though dogs often fear humans—this dangerous and unpredictable predator—we still need to stay cautious.
Be careful when walking into alleys because the dog will defend its master’s big yard. Be careful at night, and be careful when they’re in packs.
It sometimes crosses our minds that Thailand isn’t all that made for walking around, and dogs are one of the reasons.
That said, it’s not uncommon to see them chasing bikes or scooters. Cars, though? Much rarer—they’re too big.
It seems Thais prefer to give their dogs freedom by not locking them behind gates. Though sometimes the gate is closed, the little side door is wide open. Oh, and sometimes there’s no gate in front of the property, or it’s been full of holes for years.
You’ll often see dogs sleeping on the roadside, sometimes right on the road. When you approach, they move aside nonchalantly—or not at all. It’s less funny when they suddenly appear from thick vegetation, reminding visitors not to drive too fast. As a result, you’ll notice that dogs with injuries or missing legs aren’t that rare.
Since they believe in reincarnation and respect for all forms of life, they don’t chase dog packs away too much, and they don’t sterilize them enough. When you see a small pack roaming freely in the countryside, you think twice about running into them at the edge of a field.
A darker side of this is that euthanasia isn’t often practiced. Twice, we saw dogs at death’s door in temples, enduring terrible suffering with no one to help. The image (and the smell) of one of them, agonizing and exuding the stench of death, still comes back to me sometimes.
Some of you may have seen the YouTube vlog of a French woman living in Phuket who was given a little pig by her Thai friends. The animal, well-fed, quickly became a happy and enormous beast with its own garden. Yet it didn’t take long for it to fall seriously ill and become incurable. In her video, the French woman described how difficult it was to find a vet willing to perform euthanasia.
You’ll often see bowls by the side of the road. Thais leave food and water there for stray cats and dogs. Overall, they have a big heart for animals.
If you ever pop into a shopping mall, you might see people pushing their small dogs in strollers. It’s not just for fun—these strollers are provided for customers to put their pets in, otherwise you can’t bring them inside. It looks a bit odd when you expect to see a baby.
Jambo! J'ai organisé mon voyage grâce à ce type de groupe donc je me permets de donner mon expérience ici. Nous sommes partis à 4 dont 2 enfants de 9 et 11 ans. Après avoir fait une demande d'une vingtaine de devis, j'ai choisi de faire la partie safari avec MAKING MEMORIES IN AFRICA. Ally a répondu rapidement et écouté toutes mes demandes contrairement à d'autres agences : un guide francophone , l'ordre de visite des parcs (Tarangire, Manyara, Serengeti puis Ngorongoro) et un mix entre hôtels petit budget et camping pour diminuer le coût. Ils étaient encore 4 dans la balance et c'est le prix qui m'a décidé. Malgré qu'ils soient les moins chers, j'ai eu l'impression d'être mieux servi que d'autres par exemple pour les repas qui ont tous été concoctés par un cuisinier masai, Louis, qui nous a accompagné tout au long du séjour alors que certains mangeaient des repas dans des boîtes en carton. Samuel, le guide nous a expliqué une multitude de choses et a répondu à toutes nos questions. José nous a conduit jusqu'à bon port. Tout ça, dans la bonne humeur ! A la fin du séjour, Ally est venu à notre rencontre et nous a offert des t-shirt à l'effigie de l'agence, nous avons trouvé cela super qu'ils viennent à notre rencontre pour avoir nos impressions. Bref je recommande +++ d'autant que c'est une agence locale qui aide également une association pour les femmes et les enfants.
Pour Zanzibar, organisation par moi même. J'ai longtemps hésité mais j'ai finalement pris les 4 nuits au même endroit. Nous n'aimons pas la foule, je visais Jambiani mais j'ai trouvé EVERGREEN BUNGALOWS à Bwejuu. Nous avons pris le premier transfert aéroport/hôtel avec eux car nous arrivions de nuit et cela me paraissait plus sûr. Très bon rapport qualité/prix, à notre goût. Par contre attention, on est assez isolé : idéal pour chiller et faire des excursions. Très peu de sollicitations sur la plage contrairement à ce que j'avais lu sur Zanzibar. On vit les pieds dans le sable du matin au soir, petite bassine d'eau devant la chambre pour se les nettoyer. Joli endroit ! J'avais demandé quelques tarifs pour les excursions avant de partir mais nous avons pris sur place. Pas à notre hôtel mais auprès d'un restaurant à côté qui était moins cher. Après réflexion, étant basé à Bwejuu, je souhaitais faire Blue Lagoon et Pungume(les 2 partant du sud de Zanzibar). Blue Lagoon : environ 3h de temps en tout, snorkelling sur un petit récif plein de poissons (coraux pas top) puis arrêt sur un spot avec de très nombreuses étoiles de mer, avec snacks locaux, fruits et boissons.Pungume: super journée avec une chance sur 2 de voir les dauphins (raté pour nous), passage vers des mangroves puis snorkelling sur un spot avec quelques jolis coraux et bien sûr des poissons avant une super grillade(thon, crevettes, calamars, langouste, frites) sur un banc de sable à l'abri du soleil. Enfin, avant de rejoindre Stone town, nous sommes allés à Paje cave beaucoup moins connu que Maalum: plus petite, on a vu des chauves-souris, on s'est baigné puis on est a nourri les poules et lapins(très bien pour les enfants). et pour finir, visite de Stone town par nous même avec repas au Forodhani market.
Pour l'avion, nous sommes partis avec Turkish airlines depuis Barcelone jusqu'au Kilimandjaro et retour depuis Zanzibar : très bien. Par contre le trajet Kilimandjaro -Zanzibar avec Precision Air, je ne le recommande pas: pas de bagage à l'arrivée...et d'après l'hôtel, ça arrive souvent. Nous ne les avons eu qu'un jour et demi après.
June 2024.
While hiking with my brother on the GR 36 Tour du Morvan, I catch sight now and then of strange rectangular markers fixed to tree trunks. Against a bright orange background, a deep black Greek tau topped with a white dove. My first encounter with the Assisi Way.
The Way of St. Francis: a pilgrimage route linking Vézelay in Burgundy to Assisi in Italy, covering nearly 1,800 km.
It felt like an obvious next step—I immediately knew I’d take it on, attempt the adventure solo.
In the months that followed, I talked about my project to everyone—family, friends, my partner. An avalanche of comments, more or less the same but varying depending on each person’s character and life experiences. But deep down, it all boiled down to one legitimate question: why?
And the answers?
Hesitant, awkward, partial, even confused. I quickly realized they weren’t so easy to find. It was as if my project seemed more like a whim, a kind of intimate caprice, rather than a well-thought-out plan.
Of course, I knew the reasons that pushed me to leave—you always have to give some. Loved ones need to understand to feel reassured, and that’s understandable.
But I fear that when I list them, they’ll sound like the same old checklist anyone embarking on this kind of journey might give.
Of all the reasons I could mention, I’ll highlight just one here: the call of the road, the solo adventure that brings a powerful sense of freedom.
A bit like Monsieur Seguin’s goat, who from her comfortable pen gazes longingly at the unconstrained horizon of the mountain.
But if I’m being honest, I think I didn’t really know what I was looking for—or, more importantly, what I’d find. Deep down, when I reflect on it, one word keeps coming up that explains nothing and everything at once: desire.
Now well past sixty, I know that when I ask myself who I am or where I’m going, two things bring me fully back to myself: hiking and writing.
And my intention was also to anchor this adventure through words, day by day. Writing down my feelings, emotions, discoveries, and reflections each evening. The famous travel journal that grounds the daily experience in reality.
When I discovered the app "Polarstep," which was initially just meant to keep my loved ones updated and reassured, inform them of my progress, and maintain a connection, I found an opportunity to do it a little differently than usual.
No retrospective notes polished up after returning, but spontaneous writing—recounting everything that crossed my mind during the day and publishing it immediately. A journey lived in real time.
This text is the exact transcription of my daily writings. Rereading them, I didn’t change a thing—just corrected a few mistakes and tweaked some awkward phrasing here and there. Short texts, fitting the format imposed by this kind of app. Writing as if addressing others.
Now, all that was left was to walk.
April 18, 2026 – Vézelay.
March 2nd — Departure by bus from Latour at 6:50 AM. The journey isn’t direct: we pass through Elne then Corneilla. In Perpignan, I switch to a BlablaBus heading to Barcelona’s northern bus station. Before reaching Le Perthus, French police stop us to check IDs. Several people aren’t in order, but after about fifteen minutes, we’re on our way again. We’re checked again at La Jonquera: this time, the wait lasts almost forty-five minutes while police identify those in violation and wait for a vehicle to pick them up. The driver then tries to make up for lost time; we finally arrive at our destination half an hour late.
I quickly head to the Arc de Triomphe metro station, located 200 meters away: you have to cross the bridge along the bus parking lot, then walk through a large garden; the station is on the right before the garden entrance. The trip to the airport isn’t direct: I have to change at Tomasso and take the line to the airport, where I arrive at 1 PM.
At the Emirates counter, I learn my flight was just canceled due to the war in Iran; they offer me another flight for the next day. I have to wait at the airport until 7 PM before being taken to a hotel; the next morning, I’ll take a flight to Vienna (with an 8-hour layover), then an Air India flight to Delhi, and finally a flight to Kolkata. I agree: I don’t know Vienna, so it’ll be an unexpected discovery.
At 7 PM, a small group is taken to the hotel, 35 minutes from the airport, where we’re served a light dinner upon arrival.
March 3rd — A taxi picks me up at 6:30 AM; the flight to Vienna takes off at 9:30 AM and arrives at noon. I’m free until 7 PM; the metro is direct to the city center. The weather is pleasant and not too cold, luckily, since my clothes are light.
When I exit the metro, I spot the St. Stephen’s Cathedral tower in the distance and approach it: the roof, made of glazed tiles, is remarkable.
Entry is free, and the interior, a mix of Gothic and Baroque styles in the center, is stunning.
Not far from there is St. Anne’s Church
, also Baroque, adorned with beautiful frescoes
—a music concert adds an enchanting atmosphere to the visit.
I continue my walk at random through the pedestrian streets lined with magnificent buildings: I’m charmed by the city.
Before heading back to the airport, I stop at a lovely tea salon. My flight will eventually leave with a delay.
Wednesday, March 4th — Delhi and a little luggage scare
We arrive in Delhi shortly after noon. Immigration is quick, and good news: my bag was checked through from Barcelona to Kolkata. I head to the connecting terminal and arrive half an hour before boarding: the flight goes smoothly. Upon arrival, the luggage comes out quickly… except mine. After filing a report, I’m told my bag is in Delhi—I have to retrieve it before taking another flight. I didn’t know (or had forgotten): with the delays, I wouldn’t have had time to pick it up and make the connection.
I take a taxi to the Ichamati Hotel. The welcome is warm, and the room is clean but very small. Without my bag, I feel a bit lost—I have nothing to change into.
Tonight, I’m dining with Raja and his friends at a beautiful restaurant, an old colonial house turned into a hotel.
We’re happy to see each other and have a comforting evening together.
I'm starting my first travel journal since VF reopened!
This will mostly be to share my impressions and some photos, with a few days' delay, but I'm starting this journal while I'm still here.
First, I'd like to thank those who helped me prepare for this trip.
I was able to organize this stay in one of the most expensive countries in the world thanks to the home-exchange principle. Not necessarily a direct swap, but through a points system, which is more practical for choosing where you want to go without it having to be a reciprocal exchange.
For this trip, there will already be two different accommodations. We'll see how it goes after that.
The first place is near Yverdon-les-Bains, close to Lake Neuchâtel.
So, we're going to explore this area!
We arrived under capricious weather that won’t leave us for the next few days!
We had dinner at a pizzeria recommended by *Le Routard* in Yverdon, then took a little nighttime stroll through the town center before heading inland to settle into our accommodation.
We discovered a very large, quiet house—and especially the cat that stayed behind! Funny for a couple of mice! He’ll be sleeping with us 😹
Summer 2022 left me with a sense of unfinished business, so here I am back in Swedish Lapland for summer 2024, ready to attempt the Sarek crossing again—and this time, tackle part of the Kungsleden too.
After much hesitation, my partner Jean Marie and I decided to start with the Kungsleden, which is, from what we’ve read, stunning but very busy (and it really is!!), and finish with the wilder option: SAREK! This park is known as Europe’s last true wilderness—sounds like a dream, right?!
The downside of this plan is that there’s no way to resupply in Sarek, and the Kungsleden isn’t exactly set up for long-distance trekking either, so we’ll have to carry a lot of food for the first part of the trip with Sarek in mind. Oh well, we’re motivated!
Our plan is to start in Abisko (the classic route), head to Vakkotavare (also classic, but with some variations to avoid the official trail and the crowds), then continue the Kungsleden from Saltoluokta. Before reaching Aktse, we’ll set off on an east-to-west crossing of Sarek (weather-dependent, since aside from the Skarja hut in the center of the park, there’s no shelter if conditions turn bad).
At least we’ll be on the right side of the park to climb Skierfe and enjoy the jaw-dropping view of Rappaladen if we have to bail on Sarek.
All in all, that’s 17 days of trekking, including 1 rest day and 1 buffer day for weather delays.
So if you’re interested, I invite you to follow our fully packed backpacks!
08/03 - Abisko – 5km before Abiskojaure
Some info (guides we used for prep, SFT map, sending food to Saltoluokta)
08/04 – 5km before Abiskojaure - on the east shore of Lake Alisjavri
08/05 – East shore of Lake Alisjavri – just before Tjaktja
08/06 – Just before Tjaktja – above the Salka hut via Nallo
08/07 - Salka – just past Singi + side trip to Djalson Lake
08/08 - Singi – Teusajaure
08/09 - Teusajaure - Vakkotavare (end of the first section of the Kungsleden)
08/10 – rest day in Saltoluokta + round trip to the Sámi village of Pietjaure
08/11 – Saltoluokta – Sitojaure
08/12 - Sitojaure - Skierfe - Sarek or no Sarek?
08/13 – Skierfe – somewhere above Rapadalen
08/14 – Somewhere above Rapadalen – above the Skarki hut
08/15 – Above the Skarki hut - Skarja
08/16 – Camping at Skarja
08/17 – Ruohtesvagge
08/18 – Ruohtesvagge - Padjelantaleden
08/19 – Padjelantaleden - Ritsem – End of the trek
08/20–24 - End of the trip (Lullea - Stockholm)
And of course, the recap
This travel journal summarizes a trip I took in March to Argentine and Chilean Patagonia. It starts in El Calafate and ends in Ushuaia. During my planning, I considered looking into the Australis cruise from Punta Arenas to Ushuaia, as well as the W trek in Torres del Paine National Park. In both cases, I was put off by the prices. Instead of the cruise, I found two interesting wildlife excursions from Punta Arenas: whale watching in the Strait of Magellan and observing king penguins in Tierra del Fuego. The journey to Ushuaia was by bus. For Torres del Paine, things were a bit confusing, so I reached out to two agencies. In the end, I went with a rental car option, overnight stays on-site, and day hikes. I shared my full itinerary with the agency and ended up being taken care of by a local Argentine agency and a Chilean one.
So, here we go...
If you're looking for great tips and offbeat spots, if you love exploring uncharted parts of a country, if the exotic is your adrenaline, then move along!
Our 15 days in early May in this part of Turkey (a country I first discovered during a city trip to Istanbul in 2017) will only tread well-worn paths and revisit popular routes. Simply because I kept hoping until the very end that our flight to Jordan wouldn’t be canceled. Events in the Gulf proved me wrong, so we left with:
Zero preparation.
Not a single hotel booked (well, except the first one), no visits planned, just a flight ticket bought three weeks earlier. No guidebook, no app—just the desire to explore southern Turkey and Cappadocia, whose images and the chance to stretch our legs had caught my eye.
Oh, wait—I did bring along a new guide: Gemini! Yes, my friends, generative AI was my chief advisor throughout the trip for sites to visit, accommodations, routes, and even restaurants! An experiment I wanted to try to form my own opinion on using this new technology. And what better way to test it than a Turkish getaway?
The verdict? You’ll have to wait for the trip recap to find out!
The main idea of the trip is also relaxation.
So, the plan is Antalya for a few days, the Turkish Riviera for a few more, Cappadocia as the highlight, and a return via Antalya to wrap up the trip. And it was all planned by AI!
So, if you're ready, fasten your seatbelts—cabin crew, doors to automatic and cross check—boarding for Turkey now!
From Southern Shikoku, between land and sea, to the blue waters of Miyakojima and finally Tokyo’s megacity
Hi everyone,
I have to admit, I really hesitated before deciding to write this travel journal... Writing one takes a lot of time and energy, and since this is my 4th trip, I wondered if it would even interest anyone other than myself (both for the discovery and the writing). But after a few people asked, "Are you going to write a journal?" and especially after rediscovering the joy of reading other travelers’ journals about Japan or elsewhere on this forum, I’ve decided to share my 4th installment in the Land of the Rising Sun here.
The itinerary:
27 full days, from late May to late June 2025, right in the middle of the rainy season, including:
-->13 days in Shikoku, from Kochi (Kochi Prefecture) to Matsuyama (Ehime Prefecture)
-->7 days in Miyakojima (Okinawa Prefecture)
-->7 days in Tokyo
The trip was decided on fairly last-minute again this year.
Since I regularly check flight prices to track fluctuations for this destination even without concrete plans, stumbling upon a slightly cheaper direct flight (900 €) than what I’d seen in previous months (around 1,200–1,400 € on average) for a Paris-Tokyo route with Japanese airline ANA was too tempting to resist the urge to return to this enchanting country. After much hesitation between exploring the San’in region (Matsue, Tottori, Yamaguchi) and Southern Shikoku, the decision was made—I took the plunge! The ticket is booked: Paris to Kochi with a layover in Tokyo, all with ANA, the airline I’d been dreaming of... for 1,120 € per person. Okay, it’s not cheap, but it’s better than in 2023.
Departure in 2 weeks! Now I just have to get everything ready!
Intense prep work over these next 2 weeks to:
finalize a more precise itinerary and reach an agreement—yep, because even though we both love Japan, our preferences differ slightly, and we have to choose between exploring new places or revisiting beloved spots...
decide how much time to spend in each area without rushing while still exploring
research places that might interest us and watch videos about Japan
book accommodations: yes, it’s possible to do this on the spot, but last year, we realized that last-minute options were pretty expensive, so we’re booking ahead—though we’ll keep a few options open in case better deals pop up later
reserve rental cars
order yen
check the weather regularly and wonder if choosing the *tsuyu* (rainy season) was really a good idea—are we going to be drenched the whole time???
"What hard work," you might say! Going to Japan for a month—what a tough life!
Despite this being my 4th trip, the excitement is just as intense as the first time.
The only small downside is that when we booked the flight, there weren’t many seats left, so we’re only sitting together on the international return flight. Plus, on the way there, we have middle seats.
Another lingering question: what French-language films will be available? According to the internet, the selection seems limited.
Oh well, these are just minor details—it’s already time to fly!
PS: I’ll be posting slowly and irregularly... so for those interested, be patient, and maybe set an alert...
Kattegat isn’t just the name of the village in the TV series *Vikings*—it’s also the stretch of water separating Denmark from Sweden... the sea, basically! And further north, you’ve got Norway and its fjords!
Originally, I’d planned to just do a loop around Kattegat, with the *Under* restaurant in Lindesnes as our anniversary treat... but along the way, we thought, why not "push" a little further north, keeping an eye on the budget since we’d chosen to travel by car in June 2025 through Scandinavia.
Why by car when most travelers opt for a camper van, while others prefer the comfort of cruises?
Well, because we don’t own a camper van, renting one is pricey, and then you’ve got to add fuel costs (those things guzzle gas!), ferry fees, and other "tolls." All things considered, we went for mostly rentals—especially since there were four of us at the start of the trip.
We spent the first week in Denmark with our daughter and son-in-law. Then they flew back to Belgium, and we continued our adventure as a couple.
For accommodation, we mainly booked Airbnb apartments, which helped keep costs down and, most importantly, let us prepare our own meals (diet, diet!).
In this travel journal, you’ll discover (or rediscover, for those who followed my older ones) our unbridled love for theme parks, museums, unique experiences, and—especially in Denmark—Legos!
Unfortunately, we didn’t do any hikes this year because the unpredictable weather had made the trails slippery, and since I’d already taken three tumbles during the trip, I didn’t want to risk another!
In the end, we traveled for 32 days, covered 6,200 km, and most importantly, discovered the charming country of Denmark, marveled at Norway’s breathtaking fjords—all without suffering the heatwave that hit France and Belgium that June!
If you’ve got any questions, don’t hesitate to ask!
Here’s our account of our trip to Malaysia from September 11th to 27th.
I hope our tips can help others as much as this forum has helped us!
Day 0:
Departure from Nantes with a transfer in Amsterdam via KLM (720 €).
Day 1:
We arrive at KLIA1 in the early afternoon.
First challenge: figuring out where to pick up our luggage. Turns out the answer is right under our noses—we need to take the airport’s internal metro!
Once we’ve got our bags, we withdraw some cash from a Maybank ATM right there.
Next up: SIM card! Just outside the arrivals hall, several kiosks offer them. We go for a Celcom 5 GB card (70 RM).
Then it’s taxi time to get to KL, in the Bukit Bintang area—about 85 RM in a slightly old taxi with weak air conditioning.
We check into our Airbnb apartment, which is clean, more spacious than a hotel room, and—best of all—has a charming balcony with a gorgeous nighttime view!
We end up hanging out on that balcony, reviewing our plans for the next day. After dark, we take the monorail just a short walk away to enjoy our first evening on a rooftop at the 34th floor: Hélipad (Raja Chulan station—you have to enter the Menara Tower at the base of the station) with a panoramic view of the city and its iconic towers.
Finally, we head to Jalan Alor to grab a bite in this super busy street.
Big sleep ahead! 😴
After a pretty disastrous weather-wise trip to Gran Canaria, we’re hoping this time the sun will shine in Puglia.
It’s not a sure thing, though—the weather’s been awful all over Europe in early May.
For those who’d like to (re)read the story without the digressions, it’s here.
Saturday, May 16:
This time we’re flying out of Charleroi (Brussels South): the ticket prices, flight times, and proximity all worked for us.
The airport (Ryanair) was recently renovated... but it’s still not very well organized. There are hardly any seats in the boarding areas, and... the restrooms cost money!!!
The flight goes smoothly, though, and we land in Bari a little late.
We quickly pick up our rental car, a very local-looking Pandina (even more so than the Fiat 500 in this region), and hit the Italian roads... and their unique driving quirks (like the fact that the countless road signs along the streets and in towns are purely decorative 😏, and that Italian cars don’t have turn signals 😮... except for rental cars).
About an hour later, we arrive at our first accommodation, right in the middle of the countryside near Monopoli.
The owner isn’t there, but they’ve left us a ton of info via messages and even turned on the space heater, which is a nice touch.
We explore the property:
And the next morning before breakfast, its immediate surroundings:
Sunday, May 17:
After our "seaside" experience in Gran Canaria last weekend (packed with people and locals), we decide to start inland.
After a hearty breakfast,
we head toward Alberobello, a super touristy village famous for its trulli—those stone houses with conical roofs.
We easily find a free parking spot on a street near the Aia Piccola district, where some trulli are still lived in year-round.
We almost immediately come across the Trullo Sovrano (the only two-story one), which you can visit (but we skip it—it’s opening time, and there’s already a line).
From there, we head down toward the Basilica of Cosma e Damiano... but we don’t go in because there’s a mass.
Now we’re on the main Piazza del Popolo, which connects the two districts of Alberobello: Rione Aia Piccola and Rione Monti, the more touristy one.
Come along, I'm taking you to this country where it's so nice to wander and slow down...
This trip was in 2023, but when I wanted to write my travel journal, VF was still closed to contributions...
So, now that I've just finished my Japan travel journal here, I figured it was high time to honor this destination we came back from so enchanted.
Disclaimer 1: This is a written travel journal. There’ll be text! Too much, for some!
Disclaimer 2: This is an illustrated travel journal. There’ll be photos! Too many, for some!
I have to say, every time I try to discipline myself, to keep it shorter, to include fewer photos... I end up adding more. It feels like my dear Aunt Nicole, who exhausted us with her slide-show evenings in the 70s/80s, decided to take her revenge. The upside for you, readers, is that you can slip away anytime without offending Aunt Nicole. I won’t even notice!
Anyway, since I love maps, here’s one to give you an idea of where I’m taking you. As you can see, we only saw a tiny part of Laos (the areas circled in red); we only had 3 weeks for ourselves (my husband’s newly retired, I still work), and we prefer taking our time over rushing around like crazy.
In broad strokes, it was very classic:
First, we “settled in” at Luang Prabang (8 days), because we wanted and needed to.
From there, we took three days to venture a little further north—not far in kilometers, but as we know, distances aren’t just about km!
Then we flew south to Paksé, letting ourselves drift down to the 4,000 Islands while stopping by the pre-Angkorian archaeological sites.
We wrapped up with the Bolaven Plateau.
A few practical notes: We arrived via Bangkok, then took a Bangkok-Luang Prabang flight, having picked up our luggage in Bangkok to check it in for Luang Prabang. No issues—the Bangkok airport, which many of you know, is very well organized.
We got our visas on arrival in Luang Prabang. Quick, but to be fair, we were on a “small” plane, and the big flights had arrived earlier, so we weren’t too crowded in line!
At the end of our trip, we didn’t fly out of Paksé but from the nearby airport in Thailand, Ubon Ratchathani (a 2.5-hour drive from Paksé), then Bangkok and Paris.
You’ll notice we skipped Vientiane to stay longer in Luang Prabang. That said, there’s now a high-speed train between Vientiane and Luang Prabang—good to know—and soon the (Chinese) train will go all the way to Bangkok and even Kuala Lumpur!
With that intro out of the way, let’s dive into the heart of the matter.
To be continued: Slowing down the pace... in Luang Prabang
Here’s a little story about my first trip to Japan with my partner.
We went for our first visit from October 29 to November 13, 2024.
I had planned this entire trip back in November 2020, but given the health situation at the time, I had to cancel...
Here’s the classic route we took:
We booked everything ourselves and got a regional pass for the area from Kyoto to Hiroshima.
The hotels were reserved 3 months in advance on Book... and Agod... (1030 € for 2 people for 13 nights = 80 €/night).
For the flight, we chose a Qatar Airways flight with a layover to break up the long journey (950 € per person).
We also got a pass on the same site (Japan-Experience) to take the train connecting Narita Airport to Shibuya Station (the N'EX Narita Express).
Since the airport is 75 km from central Tokyo, we opted for this mode of transport, even though there are cheaper alternatives.
After reading various posts on VoyageForum, I understood how important it was to have a Welcome Suica card to pay for public transport (subway, tram, bus, boat throughout the country), and we were able to buy one at Narita Airport.
It turned out to be super useful!
After a long but smooth journey, we found ourselves at Narita Airport in the evening.
Even though we had a pass for the Narita Express, we had to go to a counter to make a reservation for the train (mandatory).
Then, once we arrived at Shibuya Station, we took the subway for 2 stops and finally reached our hotel, exhausted (Hotel Asia Center of Japan – 270 € for 3 nights with breakfast included).
I’m inviting you on a stroll through my drawings—a completely subjective, far from exhaustive, and totally personal take, since it’s based on my own sketches. I put this travel journal together after returning in late 2024, mostly using felt-tip pens and pencils, with a few collages thrown in. I worked from our personal photos.
Let’s start with the shotengai...
Our first "wow" moment came as we stepped out of the subway in Asakusa, the Tokyo neighborhood where we’d booked our hotel for our first five nights. Exhausted after our long flight, we finally arrived and took an exit that led straight into a shotengai—one of those covered shopping streets that pop up in city centers and flourished between the 1950s and 1980s.
It was an instant aesthetic shock, like a close encounter of the third kind between the modern city, a typical Asian market with its street stalls, the vintage vibe of the arcade, the sheer abundance of goods, and the bustling crowd—a mix of tourists, pilgrims (thanks to nearby Senso-ji Temple), and locals (it’s a very working-class area).
In the end, it set the tone for a feeling we’d experience throughout the trip. Wherever we went, shotengai turned out to be fantastic spots for finding little restaurants, shops, or even fresh produce. Some are like real mazes, like in Kyoto, where we spent ages trying to relocate a restaurant we’d loved ;-)
In Kanazawa, the Omicho Market:
And in Kyoto, Nishiki Market:
With my girlfriend Christelle, we’ve chosen South Africa for our first trip to Southern Africa, focusing on safaris—after a long debate with a Cape Town/Kruger combo.
But that would’ve meant cutting out St Lucia, which would’ve been harder to fit into another trip.
And St Lucia—thanks to Michel and all those travel journals—we really wanted to go there.
So our 11-night itinerary ended up like this, mostly shaped by school holidays:
- 3 nights in St Lucia
- 1 night in Hluhluwe
- 1 night at Mkhaya Game Reserve (Eswatini)
- 1 night at Hlane Royal National Park (Eswatini)
- 3 nights in Kruger (Berg en Dal / Satara / Tamboti)
- 1 night at Shindzela Tented Camp in the Timbavati private reserve
- 1 final night in Kruger at Lower Sabie
All of this in the off-season and rainy season, just a month after catastrophic floods that killed over 150 people and seriously damaged Kruger’s infrastructure.
I’ll jump straight to St Lucia and skip the loooong journey to get there (with a layover in Frankfurt, landing in Johannesburg, a domestic flight to Durban, and the rest by rental SUV—First Car Rental, perfect, no complaints).
To motivate readers—especially some familiar faces here—I’ll drop in a first photo.
We went to Albania in August 2025.
Our itinerary included adventure (sporty activities, site visits), naps on the beach interspersed with swims, incredible natural sites, and a bit of culture.
I booked all our accommodations on Booking.com. Note: almost all places ask to be paid in cash!! You can obviously withdraw from banks, but the fees are pretty high. Luckily, we had plenty of cash, and the country is very safe. You can pay in euros most of the time, which avoids exchange fees.
We started in Tirana. I’d read a really interesting post about Albania’s bunkers (link in my profile). We chose to visit Bunk’Art with a guide from the agency that wrote the post. It was fascinating—not only to better understand the country’s history but also because her grandfather was repressed by the regime, and she shared her family’s experience with us.
Bunkers are everywhere! In Tirana, Bunk’Art is the most interesting and largest. You’ll see the dictator Enver Hoxha’s office, where he would’ve taken refuge in case of an attack on the country. Bring a sweater—it’s really cold in the underground tunnels and their huge corridors.
You can visit other bunkers around the country, in Tirana and elsewhere. Almost all are just abandoned.
The cable car up Mount Dajti is right next to Bunk’Art. The view is stunning—you realize Tirana is so close to the mountains and the sea... But otherwise, it’s not that exciting for older teens (17 and 19) and their parents.
We picked up a rental car in Tirana—it’d be ours for the next three weeks. We used Goalbania’s agency to avoid any hassles. First, there aren’t many cars available in Albania in summer. Second, French credit cards can be a nightmare abroad. So we preferred to sort that out in advance.
After Tirana, we headed to Permet. Just a heads-up: the roads are in great condition except in the mountains. And Albanian drivers aren’t stressful to deal with. Though you might suddenly encounter a herd of goats crossing the road—haha—but if you’re not going too fast, it’s fine.
In Permet, I’d been dreaming of rafting on the Vjosa, one of Europe’s last wild rivers. And we did it with a local agency! It’s beautiful, accessible to everyone, not too physical but still a bit lively—just how we like it. You can even jump into the river in some spots.
In Permet, we also hiked through a canyon and visited a lovely little church.
And we took a workshop to make their local culinary pride: gliko. It’s a jam with whole fruits inside. We’d seen it on Goalbania’s site, and it was really fun. We were with a family where the secret to making gliko has been passed down for generations...
Next, we headed to Gjirokastër. A city we loved: its old traditional houses (Skendulli and Zekate), its grand castle, the Ali Pasha Bridge. Along the way, we stopped for artisanal ice cream at a little shop run by a grandmother who’s been making it herself for ages.
One afternoon, my husband *had* to go to the coast in the south, to Ksamil (he’d read it was better than Sarandë). Verdict: we didn’t like it. Parking is a nightmare, the beaches are super noisy and crowded. The sea is packed with jet skis, boats, pedalos, and ropes. Avoid it.
On the other hand, we really liked Himarë, where we went next. We stayed at a campsite where we rented tents with mattresses and sheets inside. Right by the sea, on a low cliff (about 2 meters high). You can hear the waves at night... Magical!! To swim, you either jump straight into the sea (almost from the tent) or climb down a ladder, which you’ll need to climb back up to get out.
I was a little worried the campsite wouldn’t be very comfortable, so afterward, I’d booked a small place in Gjilek. Turns out, the place was really tiny (one room for four, no kitchen) and pretty expensive (over 100 € a night). We’d drive to the beach or restaurants—it’s on a steep slope, so not very accessible. Parking near the sea is tricky. But the (private) beaches were nice—we’d rent an umbrella not too close to the music and spend the day there. We also went to a wilder beach, harder to reach, via a long path. Behind the beach, there’s an amazing canyon where we’d sometimes climb using ropes (already in place, no need to bring your own) over big boulders rolled around by the stream, which must swell a lot in spring.
So, the sea in Albania: it’s nice if you like swimming and relaxing, but it’s not the most interesting part of the country. There are so many other amazing things to see and discover—so many stunning sites! Maybe an agency could’ve helped us find more practical accommodations and avoid Ksamil and its surroundings.
We left the coast to head to the beautiful city of Berat and its "thousand windows." We explored the city, its fortress, and its icon museum.
Then we discovered the Osum Canyon—it’s incredible. The view from the top is breathtaking. And at the bottom, it’s magical. There’s little water in summer, so rafting isn’t an option. We weren’t tempted by the big-tube descent offered by an agency—it looked fun, but the group had 40 people. We preferred hiking on our own as a family of four. We scouted the area on Google Maps... and found where to descend. We walked in the water, then it rose to our waists, then our shoulders... We weren’t moving fast. And how to get back up?? Eventually, we followed a group with a guide—the path was hard to find.
After that unforgettable hike, we visited the Bogovë Waterfalls. It’s pretty, and we swam, but the water was *really* cold.
We passed through Tirana again and then headed to Shkodër. We explored a bit—its charming little streets, the Rozafa Fortress. There’s a tiny museum where you can see *huge* Ottoman stone cannonballs. And they tell you the (charming) story of the young woman who was walled alive in the castle’s foundations to ensure its strength...
Shkodër is mostly a stopover to head into the mountains and discover Theth. Our goal: hiking in the Valbona Valley, from Valbona to Theth. We organized the trip ourselves, without an agency, but it took some time to figure everything out. So I’ll save you the trouble—haha. Book your tickets on the Komanilakeferry website. The ticket includes:
🙂 minibus transfer from downtown Shkodër to Koman
🙂 ferry ticket from Koman to Fierze. This ferry ride is *gorgeous*—between mountain slopes covered in pine trees, and sometimes a little house with a few fields...
🙂 minibus ticket from Fierze to Valbona. Now you’re in the mountains! The minibus drops you off near your accommodation—pick one as close as possible to the start of the hike (if that’s your goal!). The ones at the far end of the village add up to 1.5 hours of walking. Our choice: Guesthouse Dioni. The host is really lovely, it’s in the woods, and it’s basic but great.
After a day of hiking, we arrived in Theth. What beautiful mountains! Then we explored Theth and the surrounding area. It’s pretty busy, but you can still enjoy the Blue Eye of Theth and its swim. It’s *so* cold! But so beautiful!
🙂 minibus ticket from Theth back to Shkodër.
After a night in Shkodër, we drove to Kepi i Rodonit. A guidebook (I forget which one) raved about its beauty. And it *is* beautiful!
But the view is ruined by plastic bottles and other trash in the bushes, along the paths, and of course on the beaches. The only peaceful spot: the private beach at Kepi i Rodonit, which is cleaned. You can rent an umbrella and have lunch there. That’s where we spent our last few days—very relaxing.
In short... Albania turned out to be perfect for us and our teens!
I’m diving into a recap of our loop—pretty classic, really—Denver-Yellowstone-Denver this past summer, from July 24 to August 17. Given the sheer number of trip reports already out there (or in the works), and since I don’t have the writing chops or the photography skills of many of you, I’ll keep it practical—well, I’ll try, at least—to share our take on some of the less-visited parks and spots.
First off, a huge thank you to everyone whose trip reports, blogs, websites, comments, and more helped us put together this itinerary. Looking back, it could’ve been even better optimized: a few disappointments when we missed out on some great discoveries, often because we were short on time. Plenty of reasons to come back to the area!
We’re traveling with our four (almost) teens—18, 16, 14, and nearly 12 years old. To keep the trip enjoyable for everyone, we had to make compromises on both sides: cutting a visit short to spend more time swimming, waking up at dawn, and so on. But logistics also played a big role—things like laundry, grocery shopping, and keeping luggage organized could’ve quickly become time-consuming without a little planning.
And honestly, I think we visited every Walmart along the way! Blame it on the lack of fridges in some accommodations and, more importantly, the *very* limited space in the car, which made it impossible to bring a proper cooler. I’ll come back to the car saga later.
For accommodations, this year we alternated between basic cabins in KOA campgrounds and Yellowstone (when staying more than one night in the same place) and hotels. Always with a pool (except in Yellowstone, of course), which let the kids burn off energy—because they always have reserves, even after packed days!—and, let’s be honest, gave us a chance to relax. No Wi-Fi issues either; we all had plans with 25 GB of data (a big thanks to Gilles for the amazing deal at 0.99 €). It worked perfectly, even for texts and calls between phones—no extra charges.
Now, onto our route: as I mentioned, a classic Denver-Yellowstone-Denver loop. To avoid rushing through the parks or spending all our time on the road, we prioritized staying as close to them as possible, with at least two nights in each place. And I’ve got to say, it’s really nice to settle in, even if it’s just for two nights. It also helped us deal with the weather, which wasn’t always great during this trip. The trade-off? With vacation time being limited, some driving days ended up being long. We knew that going in, but since we kept a relaxed pace with no time constraints (don’t ask me for timings—I don’t keep track of the clock on vacation, except in the morning to get everyone up before noon!), we sometimes ended up with marathon days.
With that said, I’ll dive into the trip itself in the next post.
We all have two lives. And the second one kicks off the day you realize you only have one, with the determination to spend the time you have left on what truly adds sparkle to your life, Kevin! I like to elegantly introduce a trip with a philosophical quote. First, it gives you the illusion that I’m some kind of deep thinker, and second, it lets me fill up the first few lines of my blank page when I don’t know how to tell you I’m diving back into what really lights up my life: another adventure beyond the horizon! And nearly every other year, like a toxic relationship, my horizon tends to take shape in Uncle Sam’s backyard. And this, despite his cousin Donald calling the shots. Speaking of which, it was partly that impulsive guy who pushed us to be just as impulsive and snag our four flight tickets at a ridiculously low price—a direct result of foreign tourism taking a hit from BetaMax’s repeated antics... Four tickets? Who are the other lucky ones? In this case, our lucky ones are actually lucky ladies: My Flo, always up for exploring the world with me on foot, camelback, or scooter, is obviously in on the fun. The other two seats went to our daughters, Sasha and Luna, both thrilled to be part of this new American adventure...
But what’s the American West like in February?... A gamble. Let’s call it Russian roulette since we’re not landing during peak weather season. That’s why we encouraged our transportation and accommodation to get cozy and produce a little camper van, so we can stay ultra-flexible in the face of any weather tantrums. We’ll be roaming in Kara the van with the motto "Follow the sun!" Bad weather? We bolt. Snow? We speed up. Sunny? We act like it was the plan all along and soak it up.
"Okay, but why keep coming back to the same corner of the globe? After ten American adventures, you must be tired of seeing the same things, right?" But I’m not crazy, you know!... The American West is like making love to your gorgeous wife over and over, always enjoying it just as much. And contrary to what you might think, the American West isn’t just the Grand Canyon, Monument Valley, Las Vegas, and Bryce Canyon. Proof is, after ten trips to the U.S., my retinas are still untouched by three-quarters of the places I scribbled on a napkin for this adventure... Oh, and add to that my wife, who I’ve easily converted to my religion, and boom... relapse is even easier! Because yes, we’ve landed in Los Angeles after a sunny flight over Greenland, still under Danish flag for now. And we’re already heading east through the XXL traffic of L.A.’s eight-lane highways, eager to dive into our first discoveries. But first, night is taking over the sky, and second, we’ve been officially awake for 24 hours, so I suggest wrapping up this intro. I’ll tell you more tomorrow morning. Sound good?
And we still haven’t seen everything!
Before setting off for new horizons at the end of this year, it’s time for me to share my trip to Cape Verde this summer 2025.
I particularly love these spontaneous trips, and our stay in Cape Verde is one of those because it was only at the beginning of April that we decided on this getaway, which had been catching our eye for a while, given our love for the mountains.
As always—well, when it’s open—I turned to VF, and I want to immediately thank Marie, aka ptitortue, who helped me a lot in planning this trip through her travel journals and our exchanges!
Because Cape Verde is both small and vast! We decided not to rush from one airport to another, to enjoy the places and the people, but also to relax, since the work backlog from being stuck in May (see my previous travel journal 😅) had to be caught up on in June.
So, 4 islands will be our winners from 06/28 to 07/19:
Santiago first for logistical reasons, as round-trip flights from the capital Praia were the cheapest (650 €/person from Lyon via Lisbon with TAP, still!)
São Vicente, because it’s the gateway to the next one but ultimately more than that...
Santo Antão, pretty much the main goal of the trip since Marie (and the photos) had really sold it to me.
And finally, Sal Island, for some rest—a non-negotiable condition for my other half—and we’ll see that I should’ve listened to Marie...
That said, what a chatterbox I am—buckle up, flight attendants at the doors, off we go on new beautiful escapes! (Thanks to Sophie for the easy loan)
Last note for my eager fan club 😏: yes, there will be alcohol—how could there not be in the land of grogue!
Hello,
Since I enjoy not only the countryside but also everything related to rail travel, I’m starting this photo thread dedicated to trains in Thailand (I’d guess most of us have taken one at some point...).
Feel free to post your pictures here as long as they fit the theme: rolling stock**, stations**, platforms, tracks (even without a train on them), technical equipment, engineering structures (bridges, viaducts), etc.—all in Thailand.
For each photo, I’ll (or you can) note the station or line where it was taken.
Comments and questions are welcome.
As I’ve mentioned elsewhere, I inherited my love of travel from my parents and some of my grandparents. A strong passion, but one that was unfortunately limited by our family’s modest resources. Back then, living in northern Alsace, a simple trip to the southern part of the region—with the Wine Route as our destination—felt like an extraordinary journey to a land of plenty for the little boy I was in the late 60s and early 70s.
Everything seemed so huge when you were still just a kid.
Back then, I was overwhelmed by countless sensations—I was already highly sensitive, with a keen mind and a nose and taste buds that were developing like a pro’s. Which, as I’d later realize, wasn’t always an advantage.
Those magical days always began with a gentle late-spring or midsummer morning. The interior of the white Peugeot 404, license plate 210 LZ 67, had already soaked up the sun before the engine purred to life, and the cabin gave off a scent I could still recognize today—a fragrance I found so pleasant. Back then, I had no idea it was just the smell of warm plastic from the car’s interior.
Yes, the scents of the 404 on sunny days became my madeleine de Proust...
What’s more, the whole family was unusually cheerful because those moments of relaxation and leisure were rare. Everyone worked, and no one had an easy job or was well paid. Without the *Trente Glorieuses*, these experiences might never have happened.
Once we crossed the canton’s borders, I felt like I was light-years away from my everyday surroundings, and every kilometer plunged me deeper into *terra incognita*. It was thrilling. Far from my so-called "medium-sized" town, wheat fields, cornfields, and cabbage patches stretched out, punctuated by tall poles connected by long wires and topped with vegetation—like giant clotheslines without laundry, where magical beanstalks might grow to touch the sky. Back then, I was still far from tasting their product, which was simply beer. At the time, there was still a significant local hop production. Fun fact: it wasn’t until 2002 that Anglo-Saxon scientists proved hops and cannabis belong to the same biological family.
After the fields, the landscape took another step up as it rolled past the little boy’s eyes, often glued to the windows. First came modest hills, then a succession of rolling slopes that soon formed an unbroken chain. Their 700 meters in altitude felt like Himalayan peaks to me—impressive, inert giants, a whole new world. Gazing at them, an intense emotion welled up somewhere between my stomach and lungs, nearly taking my breath away. What mysteries, what treasures did these heights hold?
And then there were the cherries on top—the crowning touch that made the scene even more magical: proud, majestic castles perched on the summits like impassive sentinels. Monuments from the past, yet firmly rooted in the present on their rocky spurs.
The little boy’s eyes sparkled—he’d been given a castle for Christmas, complete with battlements, towers, a drawbridge, and fully armed knights. He’d watched and lived *Ivanhoe* on the only French TV channel that existed back then.
Only once did my paternal grandfather join us on one of these trips. A tall, intelligent man with a face that could shift from stern to mischievous, clearly full of humor and charisma. Sadly, his relationship with alcohol had taken a toll on his life and, by extension, those of his loved ones. He had a strong personality—if his boss crossed the line, he wouldn’t hesitate to punch him, which meant he went through a lot of different jobs. Back then, you could quit one job and easily find another. It was quite something to see him in his final stages, hallucinating pink elephants and even drinking perfume when he had nothing else left. The last time I saw him, he’d slipped away from the doctors and nurses while hospitalized in pretty bad shape—at least, I assume his liver was the issue. We were sitting down for a family lunch when the door burst open, and there he stood in his pajamas, eyes twinkling with mischief, clearly pleased with the dramatic entrance. That theatrical moment didn’t spare us from burying him a few months later at the age of 71. One day, my mother told me the family doctor had quietly remarked that it was a shame—with his robust constitution, he could’ve lived to be a hundred. Yes, the family doctor—this was the man who’d come treat you any day, at almost any hour, just for a phone call. It really existed, it’s not a myth!
That day, his wife—my paternal grandmother—was also along for the ride. Everyone agreed that Jeannette was a good woman. She worked as a waitress at *Le Tigre*, the biggest brasserie in town, right in the center. Most customers preferred to be served by her, including local dignitaries and even the mayor. As a kid, I didn’t find her very fun, open, or warm—she seemed a bit stern. Back then, women in their fifties already had the face and build of grandmothers. Same went for men, don’t get me wrong. I had no idea about the struggles she faced because of her husband. I didn’t know that 30 years earlier, she’d had to flee Alsace while pregnant, under threat from Nazi fighter-bombers. I didn’t know she’d had several miscarriages, and that my father—her only surviving child, born prematurely in March 1940 at the other end of France—weighed less than a kilo at birth and was so tiny he could fit in a shoebox. Hard to imagine he’d grow into a strapping man nearly 1.80 meters tall, tipping the scales at 100 kilos.
When you come back from summer camp in early August and ask why she didn’t pick you up with your parents, and they gently tell you she’s "in heaven," you don’t realize she passed away at 54 after suffering greatly from stomach cancer that had spread.
Back to that family outing, that enchanted parenthesis. I even remembered where we’d had lunch when I passed through Dambach-la-Ville decades later. One of those charming, flower-filled towns Alsace produces in abundance—and preserves so well. This one sits high on a hill, and I was a bit stunned on the parking lot because the view stretched far, revealing the Alsace plain below—its fields, villages, hills, and forests. The world seemed so vast and enticing that day, even though I was only glimpsing a tiny fraction of it.
The region was already very touristy, but I wouldn’t notice the downsides until much later. That Sunday noon, I discovered a large restaurant filled with diners. I can still see the enormous piece of meat they served me, decorated with a little wooden skewer topped with a flag. I kept that one for a long time. Those were the golden days of rich, flowing, thick sauces—so flavorful—and the era of the world’s best fries, made on the spot with the best potatoes. To top it off, I was *exceptionally* allowed a small bottle of apple juice, Orangina, or—even better if possible—Sinalco. Yes, Sinalco—like Orangina, but better. A brand that must’ve disappeared in the 70s, but why, and what a shame! Since then, Orangina’s little bubbles have taken the brand to the other side of the planet—it’s now Japanese.
Year after year, I’d eagerly await that ecstatic moment when the most beautiful castle in Alsace, the Haut-Koenigsbourg, appeared in my field of vision. The perfect model, the archetype that blended into the landscape at the height of a child’s dreams.
The trip home always felt like a reality check—less jarring than an alarm clock, but more diffuse and melancholic. From then on, there was only one wish: *When do we leave again?*
Hi there,
Here’s a recap of a trek through the Balkans covering three countries: Albania, Montenegro, and Kosovo. I was with a friend, and we didn’t do the full route (only one day in Kosovo).
It was a wonderful trek through snow-capped mountains and vast flower-filled meadows, meeting incredibly welcoming people.
At the end of the travel journal, I’ll share what I loved and what I liked less.
Day 1: Flight from Paris-Beauvais to Tirana with Wizz Air.
Since Albania isn’t part of Europe when it comes to phone service (at least not yet! :-)), we had to buy a physical SIM card—otherwise, the bill would’ve been sky-high if we’d used our French plan! We got one from Vodafone AL at the airport. You can buy online before leaving with a virtual SIM (e-SIM) for compatible phones, so you don’t have to swap cards. But given the uncertainty about choosing a plan online, we preferred buying one directly at Tirana Airport. Cost: 31 € for 100 GB. That’s way too much—100 GB is overkill. For 40 GB, it’s 27 €, and the plan lasts 21 days. The price difference isn’t huge, and it was cheaper than online. This plan covers all the countries along the Balkan range.
Money tip: All guesthouses and accommodations accept euros. The local currency in Albania is the LEK. In Montenegro, it’s the euro. Bank fees for withdrawing money from an ATM in Albania are pretty steep: 8 € for a withdrawal of 600–700 LEK (about 200 €)! So it’s better to withdraw cash (euros) in France. Oh, and we booked all our accommodations before leaving, but payment is always in cash. Budget around 400–500 € for 9 days of trekking.
Then, a transfer the same day to Shköder, about a 2-hour bus ride. Cost: 10 € per person. Tickets bought directly on the bus. We spent the night in Shköder at a very clean guesthouse, Open Doors B&B. It had a small balcony overlooking the city.
I really liked Shköder, especially its pedestrian street lined with restaurants and lit up at night. It’s a great place to stroll and eat. The food isn’t expensive—two big salads and two beers: 14 € :-) . Fruit prices are also very reasonable: 3 € for a kilo of cherries, compared to 9–10 € in France.
Religions coexist peacefully in these countries—Catholics and Muslims. From our balcony, my friend heard the call to prayer for the first time, coming from one of the city’s mosques.
Day 2: Bus ride to Theth, about 1,100 meters in elevation gain, the starting point for our hike the next day.
The trip took 2 hours and 40 minutes with a break in the middle. The bus was affordable, but taxis also make the trip—though they’re very expensive.
We slept in the heights of Theth at a new guesthouse, "Mountain Vista Shkafi," with an amazing view.
The family was adorable. The husband is a handyman and built almost everything himself. Their baby is named "Sky"—such a cute name, right? :-) Throughout the trek, I found the guesthouses very clean, and the hosts think of everything—no need to bring soap or shampoo; they provide it.
Lunch in Theth at a traditional restaurant on the main road. We tried "Tave Dheu," an Albanian dish with beef, cabbage (very common), and cottage cheese. Delicious but not quite filling enough. For dessert, a honey cake that was perfectly moist—such a treat! Desserts like this are rare; sometimes they serve watermelon instead.
We took a small private bus for 5 € to the "Blue Eye" parking lot, then walked for about 45 minutes to reach a stunning natural site—a kind of lagoon with incredibly blue water. The bravest can swim, but the water’s freezing!
That evening, we dined at "La Montagne Blanche"—excellent! A delightful mix of grilled meats with potatoes and grilled peppers. Some watermelon slices (which I’m not a fan of) and the famous Raki, a brandy served in Turkey and the Balkans! It was my first time drinking brandy "bottoms up." 😉
I’d like to share my family trip to Colombia with kids aged 8. After spending hours browsing the forum and only having two weeks there, we decided to focus on two regions: the Coffee Zone for one week and the Caribbean coast for another. We traveled from August 8 to 23.
Day 1 – First stop: Bogotá
We arrived in Bogotá in the evening on an Air France flight—nothing to complain about, decent service, comfortable, and on time. However, the first night was a miss. We’d booked a hotel near the airport (Abitel Prime) for convenience, but the soundproofing was almost nonexistent; we heard planes as if we were on the runway. Luckily, exhaustion helped us sleep well anyway.
Day 2 – Off to the Coffee Zone and Salento
The next morning, we headed to the airport for a domestic flight to Pereira with LATAM. No issues: punctual and efficient, and in 30 minutes, we landed in Pereira. The landing already set a different mood: lush valleys, endless plantations, and humid air.
We picked up our rental car from Localiza. Unfortunately, the experience wasn’t smooth—the paperwork took forever, and the wait tested our patience. Finally free, we hit the road to Salento, one of Quindío’s gems.
We arrived in the late afternoon and discovered a colorful village bustling with artisan shops and cafés. Our first stroll helped us soak in the atmosphere before dinner at Bambú restaurant—a great surprise with careful cooking and local flavors. We spent the night at Casa Serafín, a charming little hotel, nicely decorated and well-located… but unfortunately very noisy.
Day 3 – The magic of Cocora Valley
This was one of the trip’s highlights. We set off early for Cocora Valley, famous for its giant wax palms, Colombia’s emblem. We chose the 12 km loop recommended by the *Routard*. The landscapes were spectacular: towering palms, rivers, suspension bridges. It felt like walking through a postcard. The weather was perfect.
That evening, we dined at Barnabé restaurant—pleasant setting, decent food, but the bill was a bit steep for what it was. Back to Casa Serafín.
Day 4 – Coffee and panoramic views
The plan was a visit to Finca El Ocaso. For 1.5 hours, we followed a passionate guide who explained the entire coffee process, from harvest to cup. Very educational, accessible for both kids and adults, all in a stunning setting. The tour was in English for us, and we translated for our kids, who aren’t bilingual yet.
In the afternoon, we climbed to Salento’s viewpoint. The valley view was superb. That evening, we ate at Veggie Garden, a simple and pleasant spot that was a nice change from the heavier meals of previous days.
Day 5 – Horseback ride to Santa Rita Waterfall
We booked a horseback ride with Cocora Magic. It was a real success: calm horses, a beautiful trail, mountain and meadow landscapes, and finally the refreshing and wild Santa Rita Waterfall. Without a doubt, one of the best moments of our time in the region. We even got a bonus ride up a 300-meter hill.
We then headed to Filandia, less known than Salento but just as charming. We spent the late afternoon enjoying the pool at MuchoSur Filandia. The hotel is beautiful, in an idyllic setting. However, we also had soundproofing issues and could hear our neighbors.
Day 6 – Rainy detour through Filandia and Manizales
Rain caught up with us in the early morning: torrents of water made it impossible to go out. We stayed at the hotel, reading quietly. By noon, the rain let up: a quick walk in Filandia, a quick lunch, then off to Manizales. We chose to stay at El Otoño hot springs. Great choice: as soon as we arrived, we plunged into the hot pools, perfect after hours on the road.
Day 7 – Hiking and hot springs
In the morning, we hiked the Camino de Super Coco (found somewhat randomly on Google). A pleasant trail with mountain views and a peaceful atmosphere. The afternoon was spent in the hotel’s thermal pools, with a short marked hike down to the river. Dinner on-site at the hot springs’ restaurant. A simple but very relaxing day.
Day 8 – Rain, jacuzzi, and games
We continued to Finca Los Alpes. The rain greeted us again, but this time it turned into an asset: nothing like a steaming jacuzzi with a view of the misty mountains. The kids enjoyed the facilities too: mini-golf, ping-pong, billiards. Dinner and night at the hotel, cozy vibes.
Day 9 – Off to the Caribbean coast
Back to the airport to return the car (still a bit long). Flight to Cartagena with Avianca: punctual and comfortable. Upon arrival, we picked up another car and headed straight to the Hyatt Regency, a modern hotel with a pool. That evening, we dined at the hotel—practical after a travel day.
Day 10 – Colonial Cartagena
We set off to explore Cartagena’s old town. It was enchanting: colorful facades, flowered balconies, colonial charm—just magical. However, the heat was stifling and very humid. Afternoon relaxation by the pool. Dinner at Gestlani, a good restaurant in town.
Day 11 – Road to Barú
A hearty breakfast, then one last swim in the pool before heading to Barú. We checked into Las Islas Hotel. The setting was enchanting: wooden cabins nestled in the vegetation, a private beach, turquoise sea, impeccable service. Dinner at the hotel’s restaurant.
Day 12 – Beach and relaxation
A full beach day in Barú. Warm water, white sand, coconut trees, peace and quiet. A real postcard scene with iguanas and birds.
Day 13 – On to Santa Marta
Another morning at the beach before hitting the road to Santa Marta. The drive was a bit long (6 hours), especially with traffic jams in Barranquilla. It was the longest car ride of the trip. We spent the night at Villa María Tayrona, a beautiful place near the park.
Day 14 – Tayrona Park
We left early for Tayrona Park. We entered through **El Zaino**, parked the car, and set off on a hike to La Piscina (about 2 hours). We stopped along the way at Playa Arenilla, a stunning little beach, to rest. Lunch on-site, a swim, then back by 4 PM. The hike was a bit tiring, but the nature was spectacular: dense jungle, the sound of waves, and even a monkey encounter along the way. Evening and dinner at the hotel.
Day 15 – Last swim and return flight to Bogotá
Our last morning was split between the pool and the beach (the hotel has direct access via a 7-minute trail through vegetation and flowers)—hard to leave this paradise. We drove to Santa Marta’s airport to return the car, then flew back to Bogotá. We spent the night at Casa Dann Carlton, a comfortable hotel. We simply ordered room service, arriving too late to go out.
Day 16 – Bogotá and the end of the trip
Our last day in Colombia. After a good breakfast, we explored La Candelaria. Its cobbled streets and colorful houses were worth the visit. We visited the Botero Museum (free) and the Gold Museum, both fascinating. Back to the airport for our 11:55 PM Air France flight.
That’s a wrap on a varied trip—lush mountains, colorful villages, dream beaches, and tropical jungle.
The pace was pretty relaxed, well-suited for our kids. They absolutely loved the trip to Colombia.
Driving in Colombia was very easy, and we didn’t regret renting a car at all—it gave us more freedom to get around.
If I were to do it again, here’s what I’d change:
- I’d spend less time in the Coffee Zone to stay a bit longer on the Caribbean coast, which was more relaxing for the kids. Or I’d head to Medellín, but I didn’t think the city was very kid-friendly.
- Bogotá is a city that deserves a day’s visit, but it’s not a must-see. Maybe I’d have taken the KLM flight from Cartagena to Amsterdam instead.
Since I didn’t have time to write a proper travel journal, I thought I’d share a few photos of Bologna—a really lovely city I discovered in 2017 while stopping on my way to Tuscany.
Around Piazza Maggiore, which was packed with a stage and chairs for a show, stands the Basilica of San Petronio, massive and Gothic in style, with an unfinished façade (a common sight in Italy).
Another building near the square:
But Bologna’s real charm lies in its porticoes, which were added to the UNESCO World Heritage list in 2021: 62 km of arcades running along buildings, letting you walk sheltered from the sun or rain. Back in 1288, the city required houses to include private arcades for public use. In the city center, you can stroll under 32 km of porticoes in all sorts of styles—some plain, some ornate—with a strong presence of red tones.
Okay, it wasn’t a total disaster either. Actually, I hesitated before starting this travel journal: is it even worth writing about a holiday that won’t leave an unforgettable memory?
In the end, I went for it (there aren’t many recent travel journals about this destination).
So, read on... or don’t .
Every time we’ve been to the Canary Islands, it’s been by default (basically: where can we go in winter or early spring when we only have a week—so not too far, not too much jet lag, but with decent weather?).
This time, we had two weeks, but the winter plan kept changing: first Thailand (dropped for personal reasons), then Martinique (dropped because of work leave dates that weren’t up to me), and finally, the Canary Islands.
We’ve already been to Tenerife (which we really liked) and Lanzarote (which we liked a little less).
This year, two options: Gran Canaria or one of the smaller islands west of Tenerife (La Palma, or even La Gomera or El Hierro).
We chose Gran Canaria... not sure it was the right call!
Whose fault is it?
Storm Thérèse’s!
Yes, Storm Thérèse followed us on arrival, and its effects lasted quite a while. We had to adapt, cancel visits, change activities...
But even without Thérèse...
Saturday 21/03
Departure from Orly at 6:10 AM with Transavia.
The plane took off on time and landed a little early, tossed around by strong winds before touching down.
It had just rained, but it was (almost) no longer raining.
We quickly picked up our luggage and then the car at the Cicar counter.
We got a Seat Arona instead of the Corsa we’d booked. Well, while the driving position didn’t feel great at first (I got used to it), the engine’s smoothness and power were much appreciated on the island’s winding and sometimes steep roads.
It was only 10 AM, and we couldn’t theoretically check into our accommodation until 3 PM (the owner promised to message me if it was ready earlier).
So, we headed to the (big) *Jardín Botánico Viera y Clavijo*, where we planned to spend a few hours.
We found a huge parking lot... empty.
The passenger in the car in front of us (yes, we weren’t the only ones at the closed gate—there was a car in front and one behind) went to ask for info: it was closed due to the storm 😕.
So, we calmly headed toward Puerto de las Nieves, on the northwest coast of the island.
The plan: go to a restaurant, visit the village, and do some shopping while waiting for early afternoon.
As soon as we got out of the car, it started raining... we took shelter under the awning of a shop, waiting for it to pass. But the rain turned into a downpour, and within minutes, awning or not, Gore-Tex or not, we were soaked!
Since we were already wet, we might as well go to the restaurant—they weren’t far! But here’s the thing: contrary to what Google Maps said, they all opened at 1 PM, not noon!
Back to the car, wading through 5 cm of water because all the village streets were flooded .
The rain let up, we did some shopping, went to eat, and I got a message from the owner saying the accommodation was ready 🙂.
So, off we went to La Suerte, a few kilometers north of Agaete.
The downside of the place, especially with luggage, is that you have to climb several flights of stairs via an outdoor staircase (after parking more or less far away on a steep street) to get there 😛).
Of course, on the way from the car to the apartment, it started pouring again—the bags got soaked!
Enough rain for today! We settled in quietly, and by late afternoon, we could (finally!) go admire the view from the terrace.
Trip Planning
My partner and I are heading to the Canary Islands for a week at the end of September, specifically to Lanzarote. We chose this island over the more crowded ones for its volcanic landscape and the variety of hikes it offers.
I booked everything through Expedia: our hotel stay, car rental, and Ryanair flight tickets departing from Marseille. It was the only way to get a direct flight. To make getting around easier during our stay, I picked a hotel located in the center of the island from the wide selection available. It’s part of the Barceló chain, specifically the "Barceló Teguise Beach Adults Only" in Teguise Beach, which turned out to be an excellent choice.
The Trip
Sunday, September 21 - Monday, September 22
Departure
It’s 2:15 PM, and we’re at the Avignon TGV station. Danielle picked us up earlier due to the weather—thunderstorms and heavy rain all the way to the station. The TGV was on time, and it only took 30 minutes to reach Marseille Saint-Charles. The shuttle to the airport is quick and convenient, right behind the station.
The bus leaves for the airport in the middle of the storm, with flooded roads and cars stuck in some spots.
We get soaked making our way to the terminal. Two hours to wait before the flight. The plane finally takes off at midnight, but just before landing, the pilot announces that the destination airport is closed, and we’re being diverted to Tenerife. Ryanair will re-route us as soon as possible.
We end up waiting 2 hours, and Ryanair kindly gives us a 4 € voucher.
We re-board around 5:15 AM and take off at 6:00 AM. About 45 minutes to reach Lanzarote. After collecting our luggage, we head to the car rental desk. The counter in the terminal is closed, and we’re directed to parking lot P4—it takes us a while to find it.
I’m a bit worried about the rental company’s reaction since the car was supposed to be picked up 7 hours earlier, but it’s not a problem. A woman next to us is furious because she’s in the same situation, and her rental was canceled. Anne-Marie translates for her, but nothing changes.
We pick up a brand-new Toyota Aigo and head to the hotel.
After checking in, we cross the garden, walking alongside the large pool to reach our room.
A lovely first-floor room with a jacuzzi and a sea view.
It’s early, so we head to breakfast—a generously stocked and varied buffet with everything you could want.
Afterward, we drive to Cueva de los Verdes, but it’s packed with people and a long wait. We decide to come back another day.
Next, we visit Mirador Del Rio. This rocky viewpoint at the edge of the island has breathtaking cliffs plunging 500 meters into the ocean. The view is stunning and impressive.
A panoramic bar lets you cool off while enjoying the scenery.
We return to the hotel for a short walk around the neighborhood and enjoy the beautiful pool with its pleasant water temperature. Relaxing by the pool, sun loungers, and all.
In the evening, a very varied buffet at the restaurant. Then early to bed to recover from the sleepless night before.
Tuesday, September 23
After a restful night, we enjoy another varied and hearty breakfast. The terrace seating is very pleasant. We take an inland road leading to Timanfaya National Park.
The road near the park runs alongside vineyards where the vines are surrounded by lava stone walls to protect them from the prevailing winds.
Our first stop is at the visitor center, where the island’s volcanic activity is well-documented. Next, we stop at an area where you can take a short camel ride—two seats are installed on either side of the camel’s hump. This little ride offers a great view of the volcanic landscape from a higher vantage point. A fair price of 11 € per seat for a 20-minute ride.
We then head to the park entrance via the road leading to the parking lot, where only authorized buses can take the winding route inside the park.
It’s crowded, and we wait about 45 minutes with several stops before reaching the parking lot.
We board the bus, and the route offers beautiful views of this volcanic area and its many craters. The journey is very interesting, with several stops for photos.
At the parking lot, a guide shows us how the heat from the rocks beneath the surface can ignite dry vegetation. Water poured into holes in the ground immediately creates geysers and jets of steam.
The building next to the parking lot has a restaurant where meat is cooked using the heat from a well dug into the volcanic rock.
On our way back, we drive to Playa Blanca, a seaside town with a small sandy beach.
Back at the hotel in the late afternoon for dinner.
Wednesday, September 24
We wake up early and have a quick breakfast—few people are around at this hour. Two days ago, we booked a 10:00 AM visit to Los Verdes, lava tunnels created by eruptions and lava flows from the La Corona volcano, which extended all the way to the coast.
When the lava came into contact with the air, it solidified on the surface while continuing to flow underneath. The lava tunnels stretch for 8 kilometers to the volcano, but we only walk one kilometer.
The inside of the tunnel is impressive, with narrow passages and larger chambers.
You can see traces left by the flowing liquid lava—varied colors and twisted shapes.
At the end of the path, a large chamber has been turned into a concert hall with perfect acoustics.
Next, we visit Jameo Del Agua.
This is a continuation of the lava tunnel, developed by Manrique.
There are beautifully designed bar and restaurant areas, as well as an underground lake where you can see small blind white crabs—a protected species in this very pure water.
Higher up, there’s a lovely space with a central pool that could double as a swimming area, surrounded by beautifully designed white pathways that contrast with the blue water.
Further on, you reach a large space inside the lava tunnel, set up as a performance hall with perfect acoustics.
Stairs let you view this beautiful space from above. A gap in the lava landscape reveals the ocean on the horizon.
We head back toward the village of Yé, at the foot of the La Corona volcano.
A 160-meter walk from the church, a path crosses vineyard plots and then climbs to the top of the volcano’s crater in about 30 minutes. It’s the island’s highest volcano.
When you reach the edge of the crater, you see how deep it is, with steep slopes inside forming a large circular opening. The place is breathtaking and awe-inspiring.
We drive back to the hotel via a road that climbs quickly, offering a beautiful view of the island’s northern part.
Thursday, September 25
After another enjoyable and varied breakfast, we head to the center of the island toward the volcano park and stop at a roadside parking lot where a path leads to the Montana Cuervo volcano.
This is a crater that opened on one side. During an eruption, an explosion created a breach in the crater.
Huge blocks of rock were thrown dozens of meters away. The path goes through the breach and descends into the crater, allowing you to walk around it. It’s impressive, and you really feel small and fragile in this environment.
The crater walls, with their different colors, highlight the rock formations. The crater is surrounded by a sea of lava with sharp, jagged rocks.
You can walk around the outside of the crater, but it’s not very interesting. We then head to the west coast, stopping at a spot with a small green lake next to a beautiful black sand beach.
Next, we stop at Salinas de Janubio, a lovely viewpoint overlooking the salt marshes with different water colors. A small shop sells various local products.
We then head to the famous Papagayo beach.
The road ends at a booth where they charge 3 € to continue.
From here, the land is private, and you have to pay to drive down a 3-kilometer rocky dirt road.
Quite a few cars are driving along it, kicking up clouds of dust. The car gets a dusty makeover.
We arrive at a large parking area, with several paths leading to different small beaches.
We go to Papagayo, a small blonde sand beach surrounded by red rocks.
The beach slopes gently into the water, which is a pleasant temperature. The setting is charming and peaceful.
We stay for a while before heading back to the hotel.
Friday, September 26
We start with a visit to the César Manrique Foundation in Tahiche. This was originally one of his homes. The modern construction spans several levels and is integrated into the lava flow, using the gaps to create living spaces. Large windows make the rooms bright and open to the scenery. The place is pleasant, with flower-filled gardens outside. It’s well worth a visit.
Next, we drive to Las Grietas, where a path leads to a narrow crack in the volcanic rock, forming a tight passage where only one person can walk at a time.
The passage isn’t very long, but progress is slow due to the endless selfies being taken here.
We then stop at Casa Del Camposino, a renovated farm that houses several artisan shops.
We taste a local wine recommended by a charming woman and buy two bottles of Lanzarote red wine on her advice.
Now, we head to Tamara beach, a beautiful and wide beach at the foot of high cliffs. There are always great waves here, making it a surfer’s paradise.
On the way back to the hotel, we stop at the cactus garden, César Manrique’s final creation. Designed with a great sense of aesthetics around an old windmill, it features 4,500 varieties of cacti in various shapes, all in a beautiful setting.
We return to the hotel in the late afternoon for the evening.
Saturday, September 27
After another hearty breakfast, we head north to Haria. We stumble upon another of César Manrique’s homes, where he lived for a long time. This house is more traditional than the previous one but still has large, modern, and very pleasant rooms. At the back of the garden is his large studio, where he created his works.
Next, we visit the craft market—this was our original plan. Various stalls offer local items, and it’s very crowded. No room at the café terraces to sit down.
We then return to Famara beach for a long stay. There are always great waves here, much to the surfers’ delight. The water temperature is pleasant, and we enjoy it.
On the way back to the hotel, we stop at a gas station to refill the car, which has been very fuel-efficient. Gas is also much cheaper here than in France—1.16 € per liter of SP95.
We also wash the car, which was very dusty after the long dirt road to Papagayo beach.
At the hotel, we enjoy a farewell cocktail before dinner.
Sunday, September 28
We spend the morning by the hotel pool before checking out at noon. For lunch, we go to a restaurant called "Dona Lola," near the hotel, with a terrace offering a view of the coast. We order tuna carpaccio, which is delicious.
We then head to the airport, just 15 minutes away.
We return the rental car and go to the airport.
A long line to check in our luggage.
The return flight is on time.
A shuttle bus takes us to Saint-Charles station.
We then head to our overnight rental. The boulevard slopes down, making it easier with the suitcases.
The rental is between the old port and the train station.
Once there, we pick up the keys and make one last effort to carry the luggage up to the third floor.
The studio is nice, clean, and simply equipped—perfect for one night.
A little sneak peek?
Come along, I'm taking you to this country where it's so nice to wander and slow down...
I’m inviting you on a stroll through my drawings—a completely subjective, far from exhaustive, and totally personal take, since it’s based on my own sketches. I put this travel journal together after returning in late 2024, mostly using felt-tip pens and pencils, with a few collages thrown in. I worked from our personal photos.
And in Kyoto, Nishiki Market:
Since Albania isn’t part of Europe when it comes to phone service (at least not yet! :-)), we had to buy a physical SIM card—otherwise, the bill would’ve been sky-high if we’d used our French plan! We got one from Vodafone AL at the airport. You can buy online before leaving with a virtual SIM (e-SIM) for compatible phones, so you don’t have to swap cards. But given the uncertainty about choosing a plan online, we preferred buying one directly at Tirana Airport. Cost: 31 € for 100 GB. That’s way too much—100 GB is overkill. For 40 GB, it’s 27 €, and the plan lasts 21 days. The price difference isn’t huge, and it was cheaper than online. This plan covers all the countries along the Balkan range.
Money tip: All guesthouses and accommodations accept euros. The local currency in Albania is the LEK. In Montenegro, it’s the euro. Bank fees for withdrawing money from an ATM in Albania are pretty steep: 8 € for a withdrawal of 600–700 LEK (about 200 €)! So it’s better to withdraw cash (euros) in France. Oh, and we booked all our accommodations before leaving, but payment is always in cash. Budget around 400–500 € for 9 days of trekking.
I really liked Shköder, especially its pedestrian street lined with restaurants and lit up at night. It’s a great place to stroll and eat. The food isn’t expensive—two big salads and two beers: 14 € :-) . Fruit prices are also very reasonable: 3 € for a kilo of cherries, compared to 9–10 € in France.
Religions coexist peacefully in these countries—Catholics and Muslims. From our balcony, my friend heard the call to prayer for the first time, coming from one of the city’s mosques.
We slept in the heights of Theth at a new guesthouse, "Mountain Vista Shkafi," with an amazing view.
But Bologna’s real charm lies in its porticoes, which were added to the UNESCO World Heritage list in 2021: 62 km of arcades running along buildings, letting you walk sheltered from the sun or rain. Back in 1288, the city required houses to include private arcades for public use. In the city center, you can stroll under 32 km of porticoes in all sorts of styles—some plain, some ornate—with a strong presence of red tones.
